


Death By Water

by gwyx (gwydionx)



Series: Sons of the Sea [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Adventure, But They're Fighting For It Anyway, Doomed Love, Fantasy, Found Family, Human/Monster Romance, M/M, MerMay, Mutiny, Original Universe, Pirate/Siren Romance, Pirates, Sirens, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2020-02-27 16:38:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18742912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwydionx/pseuds/gwyx
Summary: …Here, said she,Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,The lady of situations.Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,Which I am forbidden to see. I do not findThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water.(T.S. Eliot,The Wasteland)





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A swashbuckling pirate/siren romance that's been sitting on my hard drive for a while gathering dust. Finally figured I'd post it in celebration of MerMay. :) Chapters will be coming every few days as I get them back up to snuff.
> 
> Mature warning is for some violence and graphic consensual sex. 
> 
> Happy reading. :)

The sea rolled and churned, battering against the weather-worn prow of the schooner. The salt spray leapt into the dense air, made close by press of weather coming over the horizon.

Castor stood at the prow, surveying the roil of storm clouds with growing determination. “Trim the mizzenmast!” he barked over his shoulder.

A young sailor scrambled to obey. Castor knew his name—had trained the man himself—but he’d found the last few days, he’d begun distancing his mind. They were just functions to him now, gears on a wheel. He knew the boatswain, and the quartermaster and the riggers. But he no longer called them by name. Nine years he had served on this vessel—nine years, and countless crewmen. He still remembered them all, those that had died and those that had gone. There were sailors who had served here longer than him, men he had fought alongside, men he had laughed with. Men he had killed with. Now the time had come, and he knew it would make little difference.

A gust of wind tore through his coat, and he turned against it, surveying the spread of the ship behind him. A storm gathered on the horizon. The crew still worked with unhurried certainty, streamlining the ship to outrun the worst of it. Only one moved with determination: a man with a short, grizzled beard and flashing dark eyes. The captain moved with precision, inciting clockwork obedience from his men. His voice rose above them, commanding them with unbroken surety.

A current of sorrow washed through Castor’s chest, seeing him. It had been nine years since he boarded this vessel as a crewman. Nine years to the day.

He leapt down from his perch on the prow and strode with calm certainty to where the captain instructed a young deckhand on the proper manner to tie a carrick bend. He waited for the gentle rumble of Harkow’s voice to fall, then stepped in.

“Captain,” he murmured, close enough there were few others who could hear. “I need to speak with you.”

Harkow did not answer.

“Now."

With a nod, Harkow gestured for a second crewman to take up the training, and followed in Castor’s steps up the quarterdeck to make for the door to the cabin.

 

....

Harkow entered the room casually in the wake of his first mate, but a darkness lingered beneath his calm. He shut the door behind them, sealing it solidly against the ears of the rest of the crew.  Darkness engulfed them until a lamp sparked to life to illuminate the modest but practical sleeping cabin—a small bed, desk, and trunks of varying sizes. It had been his home for nearly a decade, and traces of him lingered in the star-charts and rune stones spread across the desk, the azure tunic hanging to dry on the bedpost. There were also hints of his first mate; they had shared this space more often than not, though never for long. It was an unspoken agreement between them the crew never know the depth of their bond. Sometimes he wondered who they thought they fooled—in such a confined space, the men were bound to talk. Yet no challenge of his affection for his first mate had surfaced, and though the men who had sailed with them the longest had every reason to question, they never had. It was a comfort and refuge in the turbulent years they had spent on the sea.

Having a man he not only trusted, but loved at his side was a gift not many sailors knew.

He kept his silence now as Castor moved to the opposite side of the cabin, pacing in a way that betrayed his unease. Harkow took a seat on the large, weatherworn trunk secured to the floorboards at the foot of the bed. At last, Castor ceased to lean against the edge of the desk on the opposite wall. The cabin was small, less than a handful of yards between them; to Harkow it felt like the ocean itself. Silence weighed heavy between them—but it could not last.

Castor’s voice broke the stillness. “…The time has come.”

Harkow sighed, but it did nothing to remove the weight from his chest.

“Nine years to the day. You know this.”

He had known; perhaps he had hoped that somehow, refusing to speak of it would ward away the truth. He looked up to the man before him—like a god himself, a statue of composure. But in Castor’s eyes, he caught the near imperceptible glint of sorrow. “Aye,” he admitted.

“We do not have long.” Castor’s voice allowed no challenge. “Two hours, at best.”

“…And at worst?”

A wince. “At worst, less than one. It must be done.”

Harkow nodded, but said nothing.

It softened Castor’s stoicism; he sank to his knees before him. “We knew this would come—all those years ago, we knew this would be the end.”

Harkow grimaced. “But it was always beyond the horizon. Years, months, days… Now the time is upon us, and I… I find I cannot stand to face it.”

A hand came up to rest against his cheek. “James…” The murmur slipped from Castor’s lips, more gentle than all the words before. “Please, look at me.”

Only then he realized his eyes had turned away, as if avoiding Castor’s gaze would stave off the impending chaos. He glanced upward. Steely as the sea itself, those eyes trapped him in earnest grief. It broke his heart. In the space of a breath, Castor’s mouth pressed his own.

He sighed into the kiss. Another hand came up to cradle his neck, and his own laced in Castor’s hair. They lingered there, tasting each other’s mouths.

When it broke, Castor remained close; his breath warmed Harkow’s own. It was a deception, he knew—Castor could never give him warmth, not the kind he craved. And this very thing was about to bring their end.

“James… It is coming,” he whispered, almost breathless. “I cannot stop this. I wish I could, but there is no way. The price must be paid.”

“Why?” The word came as a growl, harsher than he meant it.

“Because it is what I am,” he insisted. “What I have always been.”

He could not accept it—not when he still had breath in him. With vivid clarity he remembered the day those eyes first captured him. It had begun with a kiss; it seemed fitting now a kiss would be their end.


	2. Chapter 2

_Nine years earlier…_

 

The sun beat down, harsh and unyielding on a scene bathed in blood.

It had been a rough chase through the waters of Tulien. A merchant vessel, heavily armed and trimmed for flight, had outpaced the corsair ship for well over an hour through choppy seas in a struggle to maintain its lead. A low-slung hull betrayed a heavy cargo. This alone would have brought the corsairs upon them. The flag of Oskheim, fluttering in the breeze at the top of the mainmast, guaranteed it. And when the wind turned, the corsairs gained advantage—the boarding had been swift and brutal. In a matter of minutes, more merchant sailors lay dead than attackers, and the crewmen threw down their weapons in a plea for mercy.

“We have surrender!”

Harkow’s voice cut through the clang of steel and cries of war across the deck of the merchant vessel. He kept his sword high, ready to deflect any blows that came his way, but the men before him shrank from his blade, moving farther up against the siding. Faced with a line of corsairs, all armed and ready to kill, the remaining fighters wisely threw down their weapons and raised hands in peace. The clang of metal hit the deck all around—the rest of the crew, scattered across the vessel, were doing the same amidst cries of surrender.

“Round them up, lads!” Harkow called to his own men.

A roar came from the right. Harkow backed away from the line of prisoners and turned—up on the quarterdeck, no less than a half dozen men lay sprawled on the boards with faces cast in death. And above them, Captain Rosch stood with a blade wet in blood. His gruff jaw and coarse red hair, peppered with grey, were blown wild in the fight; to Harkow he looked like a devil, a juggernaut trampling everything in his path. The cries of surrender had not reached his ears, and he still swung at any man who came within reach of his saber. His large boots shuffled through the pile of bodies, nearly stumbling. “C’mon, you dogs!” he bellowed. “Who else wants a taste!”

“Captain, we have surrender!” Harkow called.

Captain Rosch turned and hacked another man through, even as he scrambled to get out of the madman’s way. The sailor fell to the deck with a gash through his spine.

“The crew have surrendered!” Harkow barked in anger.

Captain Rosch’s expression turned sour as he stepped over the barricade of bodies, and descended the steps to the main deck. “I heard.”

The final remnants of the Oskheim crew had been gathered, and they stood in a line, disarmed and pushed up against the starboard side rail. Captain Rosch approached, looking them over to a man. “The ship is now under my command!” he bellowed across the deck. “And seeing as how you’ve killed two of my own, you now have a choice. I have two hammocks open in my crew. Are there any willing to forsake his homeland to fill them?”

There came no answer. Captain Rosch paced before the line, his sword still drawn and dripping in their comrades’ blood.

“Come now, you filth-gutted lot. Is there no one willing?” He halted before a young man, barely of age, who clutched a wounded shoulder. “What about you, boy?”

Hatred flashed across his face. “I’d rather die—”

Without warning, Rosch’s sword arced and sliced his head clean from his shoulders. It fell to the deck with a sickening thud, followed by his body as it crumpled at Rosch’s feet.

He did not miss a beat. “Anyone else?”

A man toward the end stepped forward, older than the boy, but still in the prime of youth. “I will, sir.”

Rosch grinned. “Good man. What is your name?”

“Dorian, sir.”

This pleased him. “Well done, Dorian. Step over to join my men.” He saw to it Dorian obeyed, then turned back to the rest. “One more hammock open, boys… Last chance.”

When none other stepped forward, Rosch turned and strode through the ranks of his men. As he passed Harkow, his voice lowered to a growl: “Rummage the ship, then burn it. Damn Oskheim skiff’s more trouble than it’s worth.”

“And the crew, captain?”

Rosch surveyed the lot with an absent expression. “Kill them first, or let them burn.”

Despite his years, Harkow felt his stomach drop. He turned—“Captain, we’re less than a day from Rodaley.”

Volatile anger flashed in Rosch’s eye. “And I said kill them, boy.”

A sickness and rage ignited in the pit of Harkow’s stomach. It would have cost the captain nothing to lock the sailors in the brig until they reached port, and even less to set them adrift instead of burning the vessel down. Rosch ordered nothing short of execution.

His hesitation only brought a curse from the captain. Without another word, Rosch drew his sword and stepped toward the line of crewman.

 

....

“Hoy, Torrence!” Harkow’s voice pierced the air above the scramble of sailors on the main deck. “Tie down the jib!”

The young man barked back confirmation, and Harkow turned, gauging distance to the spread of land just on the horizon. They’d made good time in the hours since taking the Oskheim cargo, and the sight of land put fire back in his mind and life in his limbs. It had been a long trek—three months crossing the Melingain Sea and picking up any ship they could. Harkow was barely twenty eight, and young for a first mate. Only his easy authority and fighting skill had kept the usual challenges at bay; those who thought him wet behind the ears were soon taught better.

“Keep pace with the wind!” he called to the men in the rigging. “We’ll be in port before you know it, lads!”

The riggers called down in hearty confirmation and swung away, guiding the sails. The men were as eager as he to get to land, and he used their enthusiasm to drive their task. He took survey of horizon, and knew without a doubt the tide was with them.

“Harkow!”

The sharp bark came from above on the quarter deck. He turned—Captain Rosch stood at the railing. A hard man made harder by drink, his bloodshot eyes were watery and piercing. His mouth twisted in a sour frown.

Harkow knew that look. He threw a final glance to the horizon, then mounted the stairs two at time, more out of efficiency than haste. As he approached, the frown set deeper on his captain’s face.

“Aye, sir?”

“I’ll speak with you in the cabin,” he said with finality.

Harkow sighed and nodded, giving the sailors below a final once over to ensure all were at their proper stations. He caught the quartermaster’s eye and nodded—he would be in charge while the captain and first mate met. Sure the vessel was in good hands, Harkow turned and followed Rosch across the quarterdeck to the door of the captain’s cabin.

They entered without a word. Rosch swung the door shut as Harkow made himself comfortable, taking a seat on the chair set before a large oak desk. He remained quiet, waiting for the storm brewing beneath the surface of the silence. He was no stranger to this scene—there had been many, this voyage. Rosch was getting madder by the day, and all the men knew it. Harkow just wasn’t as quick to bend to the captain’s wrath as the rest of the crew. The scent of whiskey lingered about him now like a fog; it turned Harkow’s stomach.

“When we make port, I expect you to handle the docking charter,” Rosch growled. “We’ll be in Rodaley three days to trade, then make for our next port in Govaine.”

Harkow nodded. “A few days ashore will do the men good.”

His gaze hardened. “They’ve been restless of late.”

The last statement landed harshly; he steeled himself. “You believe it to be my doing?”

Rosch didn’t flinch. “Aye, I do. You’ve questioned me one too many times, boy. It makes the crew cocky and restless.”

He fought hard to bite his tongue—he knew the true reason behind the men’s laxness of late, and it wasn’t his insubordination. It came from knowing their captain was a mad drunk who played favorites among the crew. “I will see to it they dissipate their energy in Rodaley. A few nights whoring and drinking should take the fight out of them.”

For a moment, it seemed Rosch would answer. His bit his lip thoughtfully, and a glaze came over his eyes. Instead he walked to the other side of the desk and fell into the chair; he grunted and waved to the door.

Knowing the latest drink must be hitting his captain, Harkow took the dismissal and rose. As he reached the handle of the door, Rosch’s dark growl stopped him, slurred and menacing:

“Watch your back, Harkow. The next time I make an example, it won’t be with merchant crewmen.”

He clutched the handle with cold anger; it was bait, daring him to answer. But no good would come of challenging the captain in his own cabin. He bit his tongue and shoved through to the open air with a curse.

 

....

The _Morag Rose_ pulled into port just as the sun began its descent toward the horizon. Rosch had long since passed out in his cabin, and left his first mate to handle the docking papers and payment of fare, along with a search by the local authorities. Corsairs were welcomed on this side of the sea, as long as they kept to raiding ships of the enemy realm. It was a dangerous line to tread, but Harkow had long since lost his apprehension that came with a half dozen armed city guards rummaging through the ship’s cargo. Captain Rosch may be a cruel man, but he feared too much for his own skin to break the code. They’d had a good haul this time, too—the quartermaster would soon be busy scrambling to the various local dealers they knew, hawking off their haul to the highest bidder. It was a dirty process, and one Harkow did not rue being left out of. His duty was the ship. He left it to others to sort out the market trade. He’d not become a corsair for the love of money—any man who did was soon disappointed.

When the final contingent of guards had gone, Harkow glanced to the blank door of the cabin. Rosch would be waking soon. And Harkow was in no mood to face him.

With a call to the boatswain, still on guard at the prow of the ship, Harkow set his coat and made his way across the deck straight to the gangplank, then down to the quay. The hollow thunk of the dock beneath his feet only augmented the cold fire burning through him, and he picked up pace, out of the harbor and onto the barren stretch of rocky beach.

At first, he did not know where he was going. He walked determinedly, as one accustomed to freedom, and that was enough—it felt good after a full three months at sea to be free to roam wherever he chose. The growing discontent left a bitter taste in his mouth; the futility of his anger only made it more certain to stay. But for a few minutes, at least, he could be free of Rosch’s tyranny.

He wandered farther from the quays, out beyond where the beach became nothing but rocks and the cliffs began rising on his left. The warmth of the day lingered over the tide pools, and he savored the salt air in his lungs.

Then his eyes caught a figure in the distance—a man.

He stood silent, arms crossed, looking out over the incoming surf. A threadbare white tunic hung from his broad shoulders, and golden hair framed his ears in haphazard locks. A firm-set jaw betrayed the sternness of his mood, and yet his air was not one of anger. Pausing for a moment in quiet appraisal, Harkow caught the darkness on the man’s brow. He knew that darkness, recognized it—a longing for the sea.

Wisdom warned caution; Rodaley was peaceful, as much as a port town could be, but the _Morag Rose_ was a well-known pirating vessel, and her crew learned quickly to keep a sharp eye. Harkow himself was no stranger to trouble. But there was something about the man, a lone figure on the shore of the bay, that called to him. Perhaps in his loneliness and anger, the solitude of another drew him as misery searching for company.

He approached silent across the rocks. As he drew near, the man did not turn, or even acknowledge his presence. At last Harkow came to stand beside him. He cast his gaze out across the tumbling waves to the clouds brewing on the horizon. The water churned in warning, and the wind blew the coat around his knees; he slipped his hands into his pockets with a frustrated sigh. Weather did not take long to turn here on the western coast. It did not bother him, though—the dark sky suited his mood.

They stood in silence for minutes; the man at his side did not shift or turn. At last, Harkow broke the quiet. “She won’t answer you.”

“…Who?”

A tremble ran down Harkow’s spine—the answering voice was deep, eerily placid amid the surf. The man remained still, almost as if he had not spoken at all. “The sea,” he cursed. “I know the look of a land-bound sailor when I see one. You can stand at her skirts all day. She won’t answer you.”

A flicker of a grimace passed on his features, and a sorrow. “She does not need to answer—I know her game.”

“Oh, aye?”

He nodded gently. “She lures men to her bosom with promise then abandons them to their fate alone. She does not care what becomes of them, once she has them snared.”

The poetry of the words struck Harkow, even as the truth of it echoed hollow in his chest. Thought of the merchant crewman, strewn dead across the burning Oskheim skiff, sent a chill to his bone. “…I suppose I am a fool, then.”

The words weighed heavier than they should have; the stranger’s brows raised in curiosity. “Why is that?”

Harkow grit his teeth to bite back the torrent of anger still brewing beneath. “I return to her over and over, at the mercy of drunk old men who care more for gold than the lives of their crew.”

The latent anger impressed the man beside him. He lips pressed in grim harshness. “Years are hard on men of the sea. It turns them into cruel tyrants afraid of death… They drink themselves into oblivion to forget they will die at sea, no one to mourn their graves.”

The thought of Captain Rosch facing such a fate—cornered and broken—left a dark taste in his mouth. Despite his anger at the man, he could not bring himself to wish such a fate . He grunted noncommittally.

“And you?” the man asked. “What fate do you see for yourself?”

The question was unexpected—he paused only momentarily to consider it. “I expect I will die like rest, drowned or slain. Men of the sword often die by it.”

A knowing tone came into his voice—“You are a corsair.”

It was more than Harkow had intended to reveal, but there was no judgment in his companion’s voice. “…Aye.”

“And you do not flock to the taverns with the rest?”

Harkow bit back a curse for Captain Rosch, and shook his head instead. “I find I’m ill-suited to the company of drunkards and barmaids tonight.”

The man fell silent in contemplation. At last, in thoughtful appraisal, “I understand.”

The amiable response softened Harkow’s mood. He let the silence settle between them; the stranger seemed grateful for it. There was something about the man, a serenity despite his brooding air that felt right. Like a winter breeze that seeped into his skin, cooling his temper from the outside in. “…I am Harkow,” he said at last. “James Harkow.”

That brought the man’s gaze at last; eyes grey as steel met his, with earnest intensity that was unexpected in a man so genial. “Castor of Evulte,” he answered.

It took Harkow moments, suspended in those eyes, to regain his footing. He blinked, studying the man’s face, the hint of blond stubble on his jaw, the quirk of his lips and open, welcoming invite of their smile. Despite himself, the warmth of that smile traveled straight to Harkow’s cock, bringing thoughts of what that mouth could do under different circumstances.

A flicker of intensity passed through Castor’s eye, as if he’d sensed his Harkow’s thought. At last, he broke eye contact and gazed down the southern shore. “Well, James… I was on my way to the cape to enjoy some peace and quiet. There’s a cove there where others seldom go. Perhaps it would suit you better?”

Harkow’s eyes narrowed—the invitation seemed simple enough, but suspicion flitted through his mind. The cape was a wild land, beyond the reaches of the harbor. It would be devoid of people, and the perfect place to rob a man, if Castor had ill intent. Harkow was not defenseless: his sword was still strapped at his side. But he was in little mood for trouble, if trouble it happened to be. “I still have duties on the ship,” he answered finally.

The answer seemed to surprise him. “That cannot wait even an hour? What of your drunkard captain?”

The man’s insistence only cemented Harkow’s resolve. “My duty is to the ship, not the captain. In truth, I should not have left in the first place.”

His words affected Castor; both a sorrow and a hunger pressed his lips in grim acceptance. “You do not trust me.” A statement, not a question.

One Harkow could not negate. “I am used to dangerous company.”

“You think me dangerous?”

“Every man is dangerous, under the right circumstances. I would not expect any different from you.”

Castor sighed, and accepted the explanation, which made Harkow both respect and suspect the man even more. On impulse, he added: “I am relieved of duties at sundown… I would not be averse to company, then. Meet me at the Fisherman’s Hole in the burned district, if you are able.”

“I thought you were ill-suited to the taverns tonight.”

He laughed airily, trapped by his own words. “It seems you’ve changed my mind.”

This provoked a quirk of a smile on Castor’s lips. He paused a moment, considering. “I will come, if I can.”

For some reason, the agreement fueled the spark he had begun to feel in the stranger’s presence. He nodded, and without a word of farewell retreated down the rocky shore toward the harbor with renewed energy in his step.

 

....

Castor watched the man go across the barren rocks. When he’d had disappeared, Castor turned his gaze outward toward the sea, the rolling surf and wind-swept waves, to the horizon where the sun was already moving in its descent. Hollow longing spiked his chest, and beneath it, a hunger.

The corsair was not what he had expected—not entirely. Nor was he so easily taken in as others Castor had met. He’d hoped for an easy target, counted on the man’s hunger for physical pleasure to overrule his suspicion; the corsair was proving savvier than that. In that regard, he had won Castor’s respect.

With a disappointed, half-sick sigh he considered his options. Rodaley was not a small city, and he might well search out another man lewd and foolish enough to serve his purpose. But there was an inherent danger in propositioning one he had not come to know first. More than once he’d had a narrow escape under similar circumstances. A wayward fisherman or sailor from the docks might do without the necessity of conversation, but there were enough people about he doubted he could take one unseen.

Yet to follow through with his plan, to pursue Harkow… It would mean a dangerous game, as well. The man had already proved he would be no easy mark, and pursuit of him may take days. Perhaps longer, with no guarantee he would triumph in the end.

He clenched his hands in frustration, feeling the weakness lacing his grip. He had little time left—now that he was here, standing with his feet on the rock and breathing the bitter wind off the sea, a few days may be all he had before he lost strength and died here on the shore, naught but gulls to pick at his bones.

There was something else—something he could not understand. Harkow’s words had been friendly enough, plain as men went. But when Castor had dipped below the surface, grasping at the threads of thought that flowed as a current from his mind, he found a thing unexpected. When Harkow looked on him, he saw a soul. Not just a body, as most did, or an ally or enemy, or even a mind. Harkow saw him as a complete soul.

It was unexpected. And Castor could not say why it affected him so. He felt simultaneously drawn to the man and repulsed. He knew what fate came to those he marked, and to know Harkow better would mean the man’s destruction. Yet, he considered it.

With a smile, he nodded to the sea before him as if answering a silent call. He would meet Harkow that night. And in the morning, he would once again lure him out to the seashore. He would take the life that was already his.

 

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

That evening Harkow stood on the quarterdeck, watching the red hues of dusk meld the sky into an ink portrait and cast the waves of the harbor to blood-red. Clouds smeared the horizon, but it seemed the storm that had raced to reach port turned north at the last moment and spared them its fury. It was not unknown—but there had been something about it that made Harkow nervous. He’d forgotten in his fury at Rosch earlier. But here, in the silence of evening, he gave a small thanks to the sea that had carried them to port yet again.

It took longer than Harkow had planned, taking stock of the ship’s cargo and ensuring everything was in order below decks. He reviewed everything twice over. His mind was not in it, but he refused to let an error go overlooked because of his own distraction. Memory of his encounter today with the hard-edged stranger played over in his mind; he knew better than to hope, but he could not deny the spark that wanted the man to join him. It was a test, ultimately—if the Castor had ill intention, it would prove a great risk to attempt it in the heart of a bustling tavern. If he earnestly sought company… There was no better place to find it.

First he had to finish his work and ensure Captain Rosch was sober enough to take command of the ship. Or at least to acknowledge he should be.

At last, when the lamps had been lit and the sun sank on the western horizon, the deep and melodic sound of the city bell rang through the evening air. Harkow knocked boldly on the cabin door. A growled curse confirmed the captain was conscious, and that’s all Harkow needed. He leapt down the steps two a time, sure on his feet, and nodded to the crewman now standing watch. The gangplank thumped reassuringly beneath his feet, and in moments, they hit solid land.

He stood a moment, letting his legs accustom to the change, then started off for the Fisherman’s Hole.

Rodaley was a mid-sized city compared to others he had seen. It was the major trading port of this country, but almost a century ago a great fire had razed half of it to ash, and the nobles at the time elected to abandon the remainder to decay. The burned district was a product of this darkness, a relic remnant built with only half-care over the ruins of those that came before. In minutes, the newly painted homes stacked one on top of the other gave way to dingier storefronts; people looked over their shoulder more often, and he easily identified two different spotters for the local thieving ring. They watched him pass with interest, then disregard. All knew the _Morag Rose_ for what it was; all knew a corsair when they saw one. Should reputation not prove enough, the short sword at his side was more than deterrent to keep the miscreants from giving him trouble.

With a wry smile, he thought of Castor walking these streets. From what he’d seen, he doubted the man would be given trouble, either. There was a certain look those of the streets knew to recognize—a look he’d learned to recognize, when he was a young boy scrounging for scraps. It was the look of someone who knew what they were about. Anyone could have it, from the smallest street urchin to the gaudiest noble. It was the look that said tagging you would be more trouble than it was worth, in whatever form it came.

Those days were far behind, but he still wore the badge as a man of the streets proudly. He was given little notice as he wove through the growing crowd people. The Fisherman’s Hole was on the far end of the burned district, and quite a trek from the ship. It was worth it, though, because it was there men could meet and tryst together without wayward eyes reporting them to those who would cause harm.

He never understood it—what meddlesome discontent inflicted others to impress their sense of the way the world should be on him. Particularly when he didn’t give a horse’s ass what they thought. Life was too short, too uncertain.  

The weather-worn sign of the Fisherman’s Hole came into view, and he set his feet with determination to cross the distance and mount the steps. The worn latch gave easily beneath his hand, and he swung the door inward.

A warm, dingy common room met him. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth on the far wall, casting warmth out across a sea of tables in various states of disrepair. They hosted men of all ages, and few women, too. The soot pervaded even here, brought by the patrons. A chandelier hung high overhead dripped molten wax on any foolish enough to sit directly under. The rumble of voices filled the air, those making merry and those about to. He’d been here many times, though less in recent years. Still, the man at the counter nodded to him gently, and several heads turned as he passed. At least if his strange companion did not arrive, the trip would not be wasted.

He chose a table near the fire and settled in with a sigh. The barman came around shortly, and he ordered ale. Just enough to take the edge off his weariness without taking the edge off his thought.

He had downed nearly a full pint before the door opened again. Illuminated in the dim hearth light, the sturdy form of Castor stood, taking in the room with a note of hesitation. He stepped through and let the door swing shut behind.

Harkow held back a moment. Perhaps it was the ale, or the circumstance, but he took pleasure in observing the man unnoticed. After their unexpected meeting this afternoon, he enjoyed being the one a step ahead. He watched those sharp, clear eyes survey the spread of debauchery and merriment, then stop when they reached his table.

A small smile of recognition spread on Castor’s face. Harkow raised his mug in acknowledgment. The man wove through the crowd without hesitation. 

Harkow hid a smile in his drink, then set it down definitively as his companion came reached the table. “Any trouble?”

“None.” Castor sat comfortably on the chair at Harkow’s side. “Though I cannot say I understand why you chose this place.” He nodded out to the ruckus of the crowd. “It is far from the harbor, and less than savory.”

Harkow smiled. “It is one of the best taverns in Rodaley. And friendly to men like me.”

Castor turned with curiosity. “Men like you?”

Harkow was suddenly caught, captured in those eyes. He nearly spoke the truth— _men who take other men_. Instead, “Corsairs.”

A small smile tugged at the corners of Castor’s mouth, as if he sensed the lie. “Indeed.”

The maid came round and both men ordered ale. She returned with two tankards; Harkow accepted his gratefully and reclined more permanently in his seat. “...What made you come, tonight?”

He cocked his head slightly. “What do you mean?”

A roguish smile. “Most men would shrink at the thought of having ale with a corsair who insulted them.”

“I was not aware you had insulted me.”

He laughed bawdily. “Being thought untrustworthy is an insult to most men, even those that are so.”

Castor considered this, studying the bottom of his mug. “I suppose I’m not most men,” came the even reply. “You intrigued me, so I came.”

“And what about me intrigues you?”

The serious expression on Castor’s face was unexpected, as was his answer: “That, I hope to discover.”

He was reminded of the moment on the shore, the intensity in Castor’s eyes, the hunger, and how inviting his lips had seemed then. Now, in the dim light of the tavern, he could swear there was lust lurking beneath the surface of that steeled calm. 

He bit his lip absentmindedly, and took another swig of his ale. The thought had occurred to him earlier—that Castor might be a man like him. It was a feeble hope he had doused with reason and hard thinking. But faced with the man again, hope became a stubborn root that refused to die. “There is another reason I chose this tavern,” he gave at last.

Castor’s attention remained pinned on him.

And Harkow tried to ignore it. “They are friendly to those with… _deviant_ tastes.”

Understanding pervaded Castor’s voice: “Men like you.”

Unwilling to confess it to a stranger, even an amiable one, Harkow remained silent. There was something unnerving about those eyes—as if Castor were weighing the very fate of his soul in their depths. Castor did not immediately speak, which made that look all the more unsettling. The silence drew out, nearly painful in its duration, until Harkow was ready to rise and dismiss the man before he chose to make a scene.

“…Men like me,” Castor decided.

Harkow glanced over, unsure he just heard what he had. The words were definitive, but quiet. Meant only for his ears.

A wave of something indefinable swept through him. He looked Castor in the eye and found confession there—camaraderie.

“ I did not want to say it outright,” Castor continued. “I have as much suspicion as you. The world is not a generous place to men like us.”

Harkow leaned back, and absentmindedly remembered his ale. He took a drought and appraised Castor anew. It was not unexpected; but the fortune of meeting another man so easily sent suspicion and relief washing through his chest. Castor’s demeanor was open, his expression earnest. His hands did not fidget, nor grasp at his side for the memory of a weapon as nervous men were wont. In fact, he seemed to have very little edge of a fighter about him at all, save the occasional glint in his eye. Need and loneliness told him to trust this man, even as his mind warned him to be wary of such a gift from fate.

He took another drink. “And what were you doing on the shore this afternoon?”

Castor paused, deliberating his answer before admitting— “Waiting for you. I saw you on the ship when you pulled into port, and I wanted to meet you.”

The answer was direct, and honest as far as Harkow could tell. He frowned gently and scratched his chin. “And what did you hope would be the outcome?”

Another hesitation; he seemed to fear the confession, but not the words. “Perhaps I wished to know you... _deviantly_.”

Whatever doubts had lingered in his mind banished at the word. He nodded. “I thought you had other intents when you invited me to walk with you.”

Castor did not deny the statement. “You read me well. Not many men can.”

A pleased half-smirk drew across his face. In echo of Castor’s answer earlier,  “I am not most men.”

“So I am learning.”

The depth to his voice pulled Harkow’s gaze back to his companion; Castor had fixed him in somber appraisal. It was simultaneously provocative and unnerving. He swallowed the dregs of his mug, then set it on the table with a decisive clunk. “Then I suppose we have something in common,” he remarked offhand as he rose. “I will return shortly.”

He made his way through the common room to where the barmaid bent over a table, cleaning it with half-feigned industriousness.

 

....

Castor watched Harkow go with a twinge of apprehension in his gut—part of him feared the man meant to leave, though he knew that was not the case. The thoughts swirling through Harkow’s head were jumbled, at best, but one stood very clear: the desire to have Castor bucking beneath him in pleasure. It was not the first he experienced such thoughts; most of the men he seduced had similar ideas. But it was the first time Castor knew the tryst would not end by his hand. Here, in the confined walls of the seedy tavern, there would be no hope for victory. He would have to see it through in a way he never had before, with no other aim than endearing the man to him and earning his trust.

He would enjoy it as humans did.

Despite his nature, he swallowed a lump in his throat, and warred to keep the apprehension from his face when Harkow returned from speaking with the maid. She had given him something, and his hand clasped firmly over it.

Harkow took up his seat once again, and Castor felt the firm press of crude iron key against his palm beneath the table.

“Second room on the left, third floor,” Harkow murmured. “Go, and I will join in a few minutes.”

Castor clasped his fingers over the gift. He inhaled deep when Harkow’s hand lingered over his fist, the smallest touch. A tingle of heat flowed from the contact. It reassured him. Combing through the man’s thoughts, he found them open and earnest—Harkow was wary of advertising their tryst, even in a place like this.

He nodded gently and emptied his mug before rising to make for the stairway at the back of the room.


	4. Chapter 4

Harkow ordered another tankard of ale and settled in to wait. When he had deemed enough time had passed, and enough patrons had cycled through, he tossed coin on the table and followed in Castor’s path up the derelict stairs. They creaked beneath his feet, and with fleeting fancy, he imagined every patron in the room below could hear them, watched him as he went to join his partner in the seedy room above. It was foolish—but then, this whole situation was foolish. He knew better than to trust any good would come of this.

Gods help him, he didn’t care.

He reached the top of the stair, which stretched out into a dark hallway lit only by a glass-paned window on the far wall. Even in the dim light, he could see the row of unmarked doors. He counted down the second on the left and kept his feet light as he stepped across the rickety boards until he stood before it at last.

Curiosity provoked him—this was the room, he was certain. Instead of knock, he slid his hand from his pocket and tried the handle. The quiet click of a spring gave way, and he pressed the latch with certainty. It gave with hardly a push.

A dark room met him, darker even than the outer hallway. The curtains were partway drawn over a wax paper pane, but the faint outline of a bed and washstand sat in the corner, illuminated by the dim glow of the streetlamps outside. A figure stood by the window, and as soon as Harkow saw it, he stepped swiftly inside. The door swung shut behind him and plunged the room into darkness, but Castor’s even voice greeted him:

“I hoped you had not forgotten me.”

Harkow turned, letting his eyes adjust to the dimness. Castor had not moved, standing just far enough from the window his form was cast in shadow, fully clothed. A strange gleam was in his eye, heightened by the low light—longing, coupled with hunger.

Despite himself, Harkow tensed. Almost absently he reached behind and locked the knob. Something about this—the dark room, the seedy cot and close quarters, seemed like stepping into the den of a beast.

Castor’s mouth quirked in a wicked smile. “Do you fear my bite?”

The words struck him not with malice, but seduction. He struggled with words for moments, deciding what to say. In the end, there was nothing. Without answer he stepped forward behind the other; his hands came to rest on Castor’s shoulders. The muscles beneath his hand tensed and relaxed, and a sigh of appreciation escaped the man’s mouth. His head turned, glancing back. In the moonlight, those lips called to him. He stepped closer, letting his hands slide down Castor’s spine to his hip. Gently he nuzzled his ear, inhaling the other’s scent—salt and sweat, a sailor’s mark.

Castor sighed and relaxed into the hold. “How long has it been?” he murmured.

The words provoked longing in him, and lust. “…Too long.” He felt Castor’s hand cover his own and guide it across the angle of his hip, forward and even farther down. Harkow’s breath trembled—beneath the coarse fabric, Castor’s cock met his grip, already half-hard with need.

Without a word, he pulled Castor’s lips to his own. Bitter and sweet, like the sea itself, Castor yielded to his advance. He kissed back roughly, hungrily, and the cock in Harkow’s hand pulsed in appreciation. He stroked firmly through the breeches, savoring the breathy moan it produced from Castor’s mouth. With practiced ease Harkow let his other hand wander his chest beneath the tunic. Castor gasped when rough fingers raked his nipples.

Their lust kindled like an ember, seared through his veins. A beat as Castor turned, tearing away from Harkow’s touch, then back together face to face. Mouths collided in the dark, followed by hips; instinct drove them and settled a rhythm of grinding and moaning, sharp gasps and muffled cries. Castor made quick work of their tunics, and soon they were bare-chested, skin to skin.

It wasn’t enough. Harkow pushed Castor roughly to the bed beneath him and pulled off his breeches along the way. He felt hands doing the same to him, not even hesitating with the sword at his belt, and it fell to the floor with a muffled _thunk_. He had only a brief moment to register this before Castor’s mouth claimed his and hands tugged down. Harkow moved with rough grace to pin the other beneath him. Tongues swirled in a sensual dance, tasting one another for the first time. Harkow pulled back just long enough to shove the blankets out of their way, then he descended once more, nipping and licking at the pale skin of Castor’s chest; he felt the man’s cock throb against his own in response. Castor’s hand listed down, capturing their cocks together. The sudden friction sent a fire ablaze in Harkow’s veins. he buried his face in Castor’s neck, giving into instinct and rutting with abandon. Castor’s hips undulated beneath him, adding rhythm to the dance.

Before long Harkow bit back a curse. “I cannot last this way.”

Castor’s hips rolled again, and his legs parted in suggestion.

Harkow’s breath shook. “Turn over.”

Castor obeyed. He withdrew his hand and waited for Harkow to pull back, allowing him room to roll to his stomach, then arched his hips in salacious invitation.

Harkow’s hand ghosted over the curve of his back end, along the crevice and down, massaging Castor’s balls while stroking his own cock. He abandoned the latter to spread Castor’s cheeks wide. Spit to ease the entry, and he lined his cock against that trembling hole and began to push. 

 

....

Castor inhaled sharply. Pleasure and pain crackled through him, inciting his legs to tremble. In a brief, lust-hazed apprehension, he was grateful Harkow was not one of his kind, that could hear thoughts. There was more fear coursing through him than there should have been. He willed his muscles to relax, to take what his partner gave.

But Harkow sensed something amiss. He paused. “How long has it been for you?”

The rumbling question was gentle, hardly the accusation he had expected. Castor bit his lip, and willed his voice to come evenly. “Five… Five years.”

He expected a blast of disgust, or fear, from Harkow. But the threads of thought that reached him in the dark laced with sorrow. Comfort. He blanched then—Harkow intended to comfort him.

“Just finish it,” Castor growled. He did not need comfort. Not from his prey.

 

....

The confession caught Harkow off-guard, momentarily. He’d assumed from Castor’s direct approach that he had experience in seducing men. But… The enormity of it struck him. It hadn’t been weeks, or months for the man. It had been years.

It was awe-striking; this stranger spread before him, vulnerable to his lust. Castor was a complete mystery, despite the totality of his nakedness, open and bare before him.

In that moment, he swore to himself he would cause Castor no harm, not even for the sake of desire. He began again as requested, but this time with tenderness. He slipped a single finger in, then another, and added as much spit as he could. When he felt the ring around his knuckles loosen, give into his advances, he withdrew.

A small groan of disappointment came at that, and Harkow smiled. He moved into place behind him and eased in, pausing only momentarily as the other man clenched in discomfort. He waited for it to pass, then moved again. Castor inhaled deeply, allowing muscles to relax until Harkow was sheathed down to the hilt.

A quiet groan passed Harkow’s lips; he remained still a moment, basking in the intensity of it. Then slowly, as the rocking of a ship, he began to move. It was gentle at first, savoring the friction of every desperate inch; but when Castor began moaning in pleasure, the months of pent lust overrode caution. He gave into the heat, pushing Castor to the mattress beneath while swearing out in pleasure to the uncaring blackness around them.

It didn’t take long before Harkow felt his balls tighten, his gut clench, the rush of desperation shoot down his spine. Castor grunted and cried out in answer. He pushed back into Harkow with every thrust, losing all composure and begging for release, trembling and panting like a beast in heat.

Harkow did not relent. The cries mounted until Castor’s body spasmed beneath him—the sudden clench around his cock was near unbearable. Harkow drove faster until his own climax carried him over the edge; he shot his full load deep and hard into Castor’s body. He buckled as a growl escaped his chest. The room around him lost focus, then returned. He rode the tide of his release until he was utterly spent, shaking and suddenly weak from the force of it.

When it was done, Harkow withdrew. It earned a grunt from the man beneath him. Castor collapsed into the mattress as if his heart had been ripped from his body. His skin was slick with sweat, and for a moment, Harkow had the urge to caress him—but this was not that sort of tryst. For all the intimacy of the act itself, they were both strangers, ships on a dark night brought together by chance and mutual opportunity.

At least, such was Harkow’s thought. But when he shifted to retreat, Castor’s hand reached to cover his own. He looked up to find a sated smile on Castor’s face; almost tenderly, he rolled onto his side and brought Harkow’s hand to his lips. Castor pressed his palm in a kiss. Harkow sat mesmerized until Castor gave a tug to pull him down beside him.

He gave in soundlessly. His mouth covered Castor’s own, tasting him anew without the fire of lust to guide him. Castor yielded, but only so far, prolonging it in a lazy exploration of each other’s mouths. A hand rested on his jaw and remained there when the kiss broke. Like a murmur it traced the line of stubble across his chin and along his throat, as if memorizing every inch. They remained close, warming one another’s skin with their breath. Staring into Castor’s eyes, Harkow felt called in a way he’d never known, as though the sea itself embraced him and called him home. He understood the invitation as clear as day, and when the murmured words passed Castor’s lips, he already knew them.

“Stay with me.”

For a moment, he hesitated. There was an unspoken protocol about these things—especially for sailors, who learned the hard way that love meant leaving your heart tied to the shore, not on the sea where it belonged. Doubly so for men of his nature. To have another man meant taking your need and nothing more.

He did not know what Castor asked, whether it was a single night or something more. But the closeness of it, the warmth of their bodies together, and the promise in Castor’s arms were too great to deny. He pressed a single, chaste kiss to his lips, then shifted to settle more permanently at his side on the small cot.

Castor smiled in appreciation and sighed contentedly. Harkow rested his head in the crook of his neck and gave into the enervation that tugged him into darkness.


	5. Chapter 5

The sun rose hot over Rodaley the next morning. The confined space of the inn room trapped the heat like an oven, and Harkow woke still tangled with Castor on the cot, already coated with sweat. By some miracle they had both stayed atop the narrow mattress, twined with one another through the night. The air pressed thick about them, and the places where their bodies joined were near insufferable in heat.

But Harkow suffered it a minute longer; he could not recall when he last had the luxury of waking in another's bed. Whorehouses—such as there were for his kind—charged by the hour, and when he was lucky enough to find a lover outside that, it was a quick tumble in a stable stall, a hand job in a back alley, or a raunchy debacle in an inn such as this, over faster than it began.

Harkow still could not understand it—how Castor had chosen him correctly of all the men in the harbor that day. Some would call it serendipity, but Harkow knew better than that. Fate never worked in generous ways; a thing that looked too good to be true, was. Corsairs learned to kill first and ask questions later, if they wanted to survive. There were civilians in every port who would see them hanged, and once on the sea a man’s ship became his homeland; all others were potential threats. It didn’t matter the High Lord in Avondim sanctioned their work. Rodaley was a far away from the royal city, and he’d seen a corsair ship burned to the bilges by a navy schooner; to a man, they had died in flames.

Fate was never a corsair’s ally. And yet, drinking in Castor’s sleeping profile in the morning light, he couldn’t help but hope it had been kind to him this time. Something about the man called to his heart. Perhaps his courage—it took bravery to proposition a a complete stranger, and a corsair at that. Or perhaps the way he offered himself up to Harkow without hesitation. The man had steel in him, that much was certain.

The thought brought another, more serious one in its wake. Deciding to take it for what it was, he smiled and leaned in to nuzzle Castor’s neck. The man stirred and groaned in protest.

There was another pleasurable thing about waking with a man still in bed—Harkow rubbed gently at Castor’s ear while pressing his morning mast into the other’s leg.

That caught his attention. A playful, dream-hazed smile crossed his face, and he sighed. “…If you intend to run me through, I suggest you use a sword.”

Harkow grinned. “I imagine that would take the fun out of it.”

Castor shifted to provide him a better angle. His eyes opened, only a sliver; beneath the heavy lashes, the glint of silver appraised Harkow in mellow challenge. “Oh, aye?”

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, and he pulled closer to claim a patch of his exposed neck beneath this teeth. Castor jolted and brought their bodies full flush in lewd friction. “Aye,” he breathed. “I rather like you alive and moaning.”

Doubly skeptical, Castor laced his hand in Harkow’s dark curls. “A corsair who likes his conquest alive… Who would have thought?”

A growl as he rolled atop him, pinning the lighter man beneath him. “Well, I do also have plans for you today. Killing you would only ruin them.”

Castor inhaled deeply, betraying his appreciation of Harkow’s maneuver. His own lust had woken, and the evidence pressed solidly into the other’s hipbone. “And what do these plans entail?”

He closed the trap. “We have need of an extra hand on the ship while we’re in port—stocking and loading. It’s hard labor, but rewarding. And,” he added with a roguish grin, “I can think of a number of benefits, having you aboard.”

A flicker of uncertainty. “You mean to take me aboard your ship?”

He had expected this. “Just for a day. I do not like the chance of not having you in my bed tonight.” He kissed him softly. “And the night after. And the next, if I can manage it.”

Castor considered this with a small frown. His hands trailed along the curve of Harkow’s sides, up his back and across his spine. Lips pressed his jaw, trailing a seductive line upward to his ear to whisper, “I have a better idea. You let others tend the ship, and stay here…” A nip at his earlobe, and hands slid lower, exploring the curve of his back end, “…taking me in every way, in every position imaginable…” The warm tip of tongue darted out, tracing the curve of his ear. “…Until I’m begging you mercy.”

The thought stirred a powerful image, and Harkow’s body thrummed in answer. Veins of fire spread from Castor’s fingertips across his skin, igniting his lust and seducing him with the proposition of having this man, all day and in every way. The possibilities lured his conscience with seductive promise; the longer those hands moved across his body, the harder it became to resist. He bit back a groan, and his cock throbbed against Castor’s sweat-drenched skin.

With his last thread of resistance, he forced himself back to a kneel. The absence of Castor’s body felt like a punch in the gut; but he shook his head. “No—I cannot. It would mean leaving the ship in—” He stopped short, realizing how earnest the words were.

“…In the hands of your captain?” Castor finished darkly.

Harkow sighed wearily, and sank to his side beside him. “He is a hard man, and over fond of his liquor.”

Sympathy flashed across his partner’s face, and a hard anger. “Then why do you stay? If your master is harsh—”

“He is not my master,” Harkow bit back.

“Then why not mutiny?”

The question was quiet, and earnest. And yet Harkow felt a revulsion at it. “Mutinies are dangerous, even in the best of circumstances with the entire crew at your back. And Captain Rosch… He expects it. He has ears in the crew. I would be killed in my sleep before ever having a chance.”

The conundrum left Castor silent. He breathed in tandem with Harkow, and cast his gaze out beyond their bodies, to the rumpled sheets at their feet and the soot-covered wall beyond.

At last, “I will help.”

The words jarred Harkow out of his own thought. “What?”

He turned back to face him. “Today,” he qualified. “I will help, as you asked.”

The concession brought a warmth back to banish Harkow’s brooding thoughts, and he smiled in genuine joy. He pulled Castor to him for a lewd kiss, and Castor answered in kind, grinding his still-hard cock against Harkow’s own. His hips began to move of their own accord, setting a cadence he knew could only end in release. Burying his face in Castor’s neck, he breathed, “That will be enough.”

He knew it was a lie the moment it left his mouth. He wouldn’t be satisfied with Castor for a day, perhaps not even three. He wanted more time than he had to unravel the darkness that shone through—a man who would think of mutiny, of the danger of waking with a corsair in his bed but not shy from it. Castor was a mystery, and one that would need to be undone. But for now, Harkow sank his teeth into his tender skin and let the current of lust carry his thoughts away.

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter consistency? Don't know her. 
> 
> (Longer chapters from here on out. :) )

“Hoy! Garrick!”

Harkow stepped onto the gangplank and called out for the quartermaster he knew would be waiting his return. Castor stepped easily behind him; the man had been quiet once they left the sanctuary of the inn room, and he’d barely said a dozen words on the walk down to the harbor. The quiet did not seem hostile, but Harkow still hoped that once they were aboard the ship, his tongue would loosen. Something in him wanted to believe Castor would be as good of company outside the bedroom as in it.

Garrick spotted them from his position on the main deck and raised a hand in greeting. He was a big man, tanned by years on the sea, same as Harkow, and carried a bulk of muscle that made even his shadow something to balk at. He’d stripped down to his breeches in the heat, and the mountain of his upper body was marred with scars. His genial smile was contagious as they crossed the gangplank.

 “Hoy, sir! All’s well this morning,” he reported easily. “Just going over the cargo before the merchants arrive.”

Harkow nodded and smiled in return. “I’ve brought a hand to help with the lifting.” He gestured Castor toward the hold. “Our hauls are large enough, it’s easier for the tradesmen to come to us. Those that suffer being on a corsair vessel,” he added. “Some would not board a corsair ship if we had the crown jewels and all of Feroligan spilling to the scuppers.”

Garrick offered a hearty laugh. “Who needs ’em, eh?” he called. “Snob-nosed arses with their heads in the air and their cocks in the gutter, I say.”

A grin cracked Castor’s face. “As opposed to corsairs?”

“Oh, we have our cocks in the gutter,” Garrick answered in kind. “Make no mistake of that. But our heads are there, too. More honest on both ends.”

Castor’s smile widened in sardonic amusement, and Harkow couldn’t help but wonder if he was thinking of last night and the sordid tavern room—honest on both ends.  At least, for his part. Something told him more lurked in the hard-edged depths of his companion than he spoke.

He made his way over to the nearest hatch, and swung it wide. “And today, honest man’s work… Mostly,” he added with a wink. Casting his voice out to the quartermaster, he added, “I’ll see to the starboard hull, if you manage the port.”

Garrick called back confirmation, and Castor crossed to join him in the sun-void depths of the ship.

 

....

The darkness was near complete as they reached the bottom of the ladder, but soon Harkow had found the tinder of the nearest lamp and sparked it to life. He knew this ship by heart, down to which boards creaked, which scuppers drained slowly, and which sails were weakest. The _Morag Rose_ was a modified hulk ship with two lower levels below the deck and four masts, the main of which had been carved of a colossus tree from the forests of Evulte. The length and weight of the ship was divided into two sections—port and starboard. Apart from making it harder to take by enemy hands, the division provided a barrier in the event one side was damaged or caught fire.

The lamplight sparked and sputtered, then cast its glow out down the length of the hall. In its reach, piles of supplies spread as small mountains covered in old canvas tarps. Beneath the dull brown of the tarps, various boxes, bags, trunks and loose trinkets could be seen.

Castor took it all in with reserved appreciation. “Your haul?” he guessed.

“Most of it,” Harkow said. “The rest is on the port side. It’s our task to make sure it’s sorted, such as it can be. Some was done while we sailed, but Rosch likes to keep a skeleton crew on most runs. Less to share out.”

Castor grunted noncommittally and ran a hand over a dusty barrel. “Somehow, I had expected more…”

“Gold?” Harkow guessed.

“Blood.” Castor scanned the peripheries of the room; his eyes glinted in the lamplight. “I’ve seen the handiwork of corsairs. It is never merciful.”

Harkow accepted this and moved to the nearest pile to pull off the rough-shod canvas. A mismatched array of trunks and trinkets were revealed. “There is a difference between merciful and honorable. Most corsairs do not kill unless they have to. It’s the cargo we’re after, not the men.”

“You say most…” Castor frowned. “What of others?”

He sighed restlessly, and pulled back another canvas. “Some men are born without souls, or lose them along the way. Their minds are twisted, and bloodshed itself becomes their end.”

“…Your captain,” Castor said quietly.

Harkow paused in his work, and his shoulders slumped. “Rosch is a good fighter. An even better pirate.”

“But not an honorable man,” Castor concluded.

Harkow glanced about, as if he expected the man himself to appear from the shadows. “He kills without need. And that is dangerous.”

To his surprise, Castor turned away with a scowl. He threw himself into the work Harkow had abandoned. “You speak of need as whim. What need do you have that is so great, it merits killing another to take it?”

The statement was lofty, but intensity lay beneath it—the harshness in Castor’s expression betrayed knowledge, as one doomed soul accusing another. Harkow felt it, and gave his answer with conviction. “The need to eat. To live. Out there on the sea, there are no laws but survival. We fight because we must. The riches we mass are traded in port for the gold to sail again; for food and water, and for repairs to the ship. Letting an enemy pass our prow unhindered chances that we may starve ourselves.”

“And what purpose does killing the crew serve, if all you are after is cargo?”

A grim frown. “Because they have just as powerful a need to survive as we do. I don’t begrudge a man who fights for his own survival—I’d do the same, and have in reverse circumstances. But that doesn’t mean I let him run me through. A man’s got to fight for what he wants or take what he gets.”

This, at last, seemed to strike Castor. He paused, handling a wrapped parcel with pensive silence. When he spoke, there was an edge of earnestness that had not been there before. “You believe it is in a man’s right to kill if failing to do so means his death?”

No hesitation. “Aye.”

The assertion struck Castor wistfully. “…You are a strange man.”

Harkow laughed in appreciation and tossed him a dust rag. “I’ve been called worse.”

....

The morning passed quietly. They made fair progress, the pair of them working in tandem silence. Apart from the occasional question from Castor about the location of a tool or box, the man kept to himself. It might have felt hostile if not for the wayward glance or passing touch granted when Harkow least expected it. Castor was proving to be a fair hand at manual labor, and the comfort of having another in the hull with him, a friendly presence, made the morning pass faster than it ever had.

When they were finishing up the final stretch on the far end of the room, the hatch opened and sunlight spilled down into the sanctuary. Voices carried down in the darkness. Harkow easily recognized Garrick’s rumbling bass; coupled with it, a lilting feminine accent laughed and answered–Harkow knew that voice.

He cursed under his breath, and kicked a box of intricate jewelry behind the cover of a disused crate. Castor eyed this, and cast him a look of confusion. There was no time to explain, because at the moment, figures came stepping down the ladder. Harkow turned to face them and tried to force an open, casual stance.

First to descend was Garrick, carrying a lamp to light the way. His hulk caused the ladder to creak, and once he reached the bottom, he moved with surprising grace to make way for the others.

The second to come was a man Harkow recognized well. A waifish, frail scribe clothed in a basic tabard and leggings. The large, sack-like hat on his head looked too heavy to stay, and a pair of glasses rested on a thin nose, accented by sharp cheekbones that looked gaunt in the dim light. His mousy eyes scanned the room with spooked suspicion.

When he had reached the bottom and called confirmation to the top, the final figure descended. Harkow did not even need to look, but knew what he would see. Sandal-clad feet touched the rungs with practiced grace, and a rich and tight-wound blue dress draped in allure over an hourglass figure. Last to come was the mass of ink-black hair, decorated in a complex braid swaying down the woman’s back. Gold beads gleamed in the swaying light, and off the myriad of bracelets adorning her bare wrists that slid sensually down the ladder’s rail. When her feet hit the floorboards, she turned.

Harkow was caught in a dark, piercing gaze that, for all its beauty, spoke of cunning. A large, faded scar slipped down the side of her neck, shattering the appearance of a peaceful civilian; he knew what had become of the man that gave it to her, and it had not been merciful. Despite himself, Harkow found he could not muster a smile to greet her.

“…a mix of Oskheim goods and western oddities,” Garrick was explaining to his guests. “Some of the tools even we don’t recognize.”

The woman waved her hand. “You should have kept one of the crew for information. Men will tell you anything, given proper incentive.”

It was too much. Harkow stepped forward. “I’m afraid we don’t have your gift for torture, Livie,” he said. “We’re better at running men through or setting them adrift.”

The woman’s eyes glinted. “James Harkow…” She appraised him once over, and folded her arms. “It seems fate has been kind to you.”

He bowed slightly, even as the bite of anger kept his face locked in a stoic frown. “Good to see the year has treated you well.”

Her laughter rustled through the dark. “Doesn’t it always?”

He did not answer. The formalities finished, Harkow gestured to the stockpiled hull. “I’m afraid you’ll excuse me. I have work to do above decks. But I trust Garrick will see to it you find what you need.”

A slice of annoyance flashed in her eye, but she nodded as he shouldered past. “Of course.”

Harkow gestured for Castor to follow, and ascended the ladder two rungs at a time.

....

“Who is she?” Castor wondered. Harkow did not in fact have business above deck, but used the excuse to retreat to his private cabin with Castor in tow. It was small, as officer’s cabins went; but then, Harkow was a modest man with little flair for the dramatic. The majority of the space was occupied by a large desk with a nexus of drawers and cupboards which held the ship’s paperwork. A narrow cot sat in the corner, and beside it, Castor rested in a wooden chair fastened to the floor with bolts.

Harkow glanced up from where he scanned the spread of star charts. He had not deigned to sit—his blood still roiled in latent anger, and his feet would not rest. “She is a crooked merchant here in Rodaley, with hands in many pockets. Don’t let her beauty fool you—she’s got more vile business than legal. That man with her was her right hand. It’s his business to know the black market and what would be valuable goods to fence later.”

Castor frowned and rubbed his shoulder absently. “Is that why you hate her?”

The question was unexpected. “I never said I hated her.”

A hard look and crossed arms said he didn’t have to.

Harkow sighed and rested against the edge of the desk. “She’s a treacherous snake who’s crossed us more than once. If I could throw her off the boat kicking and screaming, I would. But the captain makes those calls, not me.”

A twinge of a smile tugged Castor’s mouth. The explanation seemed to satisfy him for the moment, and he turned his attention elsewhere, taking in the furnishings of the cabin.

Seeing him sitting there, a thoughtful expression on his hard-set jaw, Harkow couldn’t resist. “But such are the worries,” he said dismissively, coming to stand before him. He sank to a crouch, and turned Castor’s gaze back to his own. “And I have more pleasant things to occupy us.”

A wry smile grew on his features. "Oh, aye?"

Harkow covered his mouth with a kiss. "Aye." He trailed a hand down Castor's chest and took his crotch without prequel. "I have tried to keep my hands off you all morning."

Castor inhaled deep, and his eyes fell closed in appreciation as he ground against Harkow's palm. "It is not wise here."

Harkow grinned. "That's why I locked the door."

Castor's eyes flew open. His gaze darted to the solid wood door of the cabin—indeed, the latch was hooked. Had been all along.

Harkow chuckled at his surprise. "You underestimate me, Castor."

Castor's hands twined in his hair, and Harkow followed their prompting down across the billow of Castor's tunic, the supple plane of his stomach and further, to the hardened cock beneath his hand. His fingers made fast work of the legging's laces. Then Castor was bare before him again, the hardening mast of his cock jutting into the quiet air.

Harkow descended and pulled him into his mouth.

A groan of pleasure rumbled in Castor's throat. His hands laced into Harkow's hair, holding him there as he reveled in the unexpected sensation. For a moment, Harkow thought he'd forget breath entirely.

But after beat, Castor sighed and relaxed in pleasure. Harkow smiled despite himself and let his tongue wander the hardening shaft in playful seduction. It began slow, a methodical withdraw as his tongue teased the underside of his cock inch by inch until he was nearly free, then Harkow descended again and swallowed him with practiced ease. A grunt betrayed Castor’s appreciation, and Harkow gripped the base of his cock, pumping in time with his mouth. He savored the smell of Castor’s need, the salt of his sweat and the tremor of his muscles as he drew closer and closer to the end. He willed his throat to relax, then descended to the hilt, taking him in until the rough fur at the base tickled his nose. Castor's hips began to rut in desperation, forcing himself farther. Harkow held him there, moaning his own appreciation as Castor’s cry melded to whispered pleas.

 “James… By th’gods, James…” Castor gasped his name, even as his breath became erratic and his eyes fell closed in unspeakable need. He whispered it again, and again, until it became a rumbling chant.

Harkow did not know at what point his actions crossed from lust-driven to affection; he did not know when mere attention became devotion. But as he started fellating Castor in earnest, it took on greater purpose. He devoured Castor, wanting nothing more than to feel him tremble and break in release, allow him beyond casual barriers and show him the truth beneath.  Castor’s hips rode his mouth of its own accord now, and Harkow braced himself for the coming end.

It came in a blast of thick, bitter seed that filled his mouth and throat, so much he nearly choked. Castor gasped and keened, forcing Harkow’s head down on his cock until he couldn’t breathe. With the patience of affection, Harkow held. He drank down everything Castor offered; his hands caressed his thighs, massaging reassurance over the trembling muscles.

At last, as if waking from a dream, Castor’s hands withdrew. Harkow slid a final lick over the still-swollen shaft, then drew back and wiped the remnants of evidence from his lips and chin. He looked up to find Castor in a state of dazed awe.

Harkow chuckled and swooped in for a kiss. It was sloppy and rough, but Castor kissed back with equal enthusiasm; tongues met and swirled in lazy, lascivious fulfillment. 

Then against his own desire, Harkow retreated and rolled to his feet. Castor watched him with intent fascination. His eyes wandered down to the bulge in Harkow’s breeches, half-hidden by the billow of his tunic. “You…” Confusion tinted his words.

Harkow’s smile broadened. “Later. There is still work to be done, and with any luck, that she-devil has finished her scavenging.” With a wink, “Rest and join me when you’re ready.”

He said nothing further, only unlatched the door and stepped back into the sun.

 

....

When Castor emerged into the open air minutes later, a strange scene met him. Conversation was in mid-swing below on the main deck; Livie and her man faced Garrick and Harkow, who stood shoulder to shoulder with expressions both guarded and thoughtful. By the sharp tone of Livie’s voice, Castor guessed negotiations were underway. Absently he noted two more men standing on the dock, armed with swords and black looks—bodyguards, he supposed, waiting on their mistress.

He descended the steps to the deck but remained at a distance. This was not his place, nor his interest. What became of this ship and its crew was not his purpose.

But as the woman turned back to her man, her voice changed. She snipped something at him in a guttural language, and the man paused. The tension of the scene provoked his curiosity, and with little effort, he reached out and grasped the threads of the man’s thoughts, immersing himself in their cadence. When he answered the question, Castor understood with clarity:

“No, my lady. The province of Dorchest has fallen to war, and steel is gleaning thrice the normal profit.”

Castor’s gaze flitted to the woman—she took the information with quiet calculation, then turned back to the corsairs. Surprise shot through him: when her eyes settled on Harkow, murderous intent screamed through her, so loud it was a wonder her voice remained unbroken. Whatever had passed between them, it fueled a hate that ensured treachery.

Her voice broke the hiatus in the common language, a lie twisted behind manipulative negotiation: “My man says the time of peace has brought a decline in the demand for steel, even of quality. No market will take it at full price. I will pay half of what you ask, and no more.”

 

....

Harkow listened to Livie’s words with untainted annoyance. He’d seen Castor emerge some time ago, and was grateful the man kept his distance; Harkow himself disliked being dragged into negotiations, let alone ones so distasteful as this. But when Livie continued to demand a price low enough to make even Garrick question its wisdom, he’d come to Harkow for a decision.

He weighed the information she presented with frustration. If it were true—if the price for steel weapons had declined—she may be the only merchant in Rodaley willing to barter for them. And the monetary amount they would be sacrificing was substantial, either way. Despite his frustration, he opened his mouth to accept the bargain, when another voice interrupted him.

“You lie.”

Confused, Harkow turned—Castor had approached while they spoke, and now stood less than a yard from his side. The steel of his eyes was hard, and unyielding.

Livie was taken aback by it, as well. “What did you say?”

Castor spoke again more certainly. “I said you lie. That is not the information your man gave you. There is a war beginning in Dorchest, and steel is worth treble, not half.”

Anger flashed in Harkow’s chest. He did not doubt Castor’s statement; the man had no reason to lie. But Livie had every reason in the world, and it had nearly cost them a month’s worth of supplies. “How in hell…”

Without warning, Livie crossed the distance between herself and Castor in two strides. Her hand moved in a brutal backhanded blow that smacked across his face and drove him to his knees. “I’ll break your neck—”

Harkow was at her. He caught her arm and twisted, forcing her away from where Castor had risen. In the back of his mind, he registered the cold glint in Castor’s eye, the murderous threat. He could not worry about that now; he wrenched her back and cast her aside with a growl. “Do not dare raise a hand to my crew!” Rage coursed through him, doubly at her audacity. "Leave!"

Livie turned with venomous hate. Her dress had come disheveled, and the dagger suddenly in her hand was clutched with deftness that spoke of honed skill. The ire in her eyes would have struck Harkow dead. “I answer to your captain, you fish-gutted dolt! You have no authority to—”

Harkow drew his sword. “Get off of my ship, Livie,” he growled. “I will not say it again.”

She paused, clearly unwilling to concede. But Garrick had drawn his blade as well, and the hard glint in Castor’s eye was one of unbridled hate. She took several steps back, and Harkow advanced, raising the tip of his sword level with her throat.

To Harkow’s relief, she straightened, and retreated toward the gangplank without a word. Her man followed in her footsteps. A wince came when he thought of the scribe’s fate—if she would vent her venom on him. Harkow hoped he had enough sense to run.

His own hide was now on the skinning block, as well. He remained on guard until she disappeared into the greater crowd of the harbor, then lowered his weapon with a sigh.

It was echoed by Garrick’s own. “…Hell in a crown,” he cursed. “She’s a viperous bitch.”

Harkow grunted in agreement. He sheathed his weapon while turning to Castor.

The man had not moved. Castor kept his eyes fixed on the spot Livie had retreated through.

Harkow clapped a hand on his arm. “That was well done, Castor. I did not know you spoke Erulian.”

Castor blinked, then glanced over to him in hard honesty. “She means to kill you.”

The serious statement brought a laugh to his voice. “She’s not the first, or last. I’m grateful to you. In earnest.”

“As am I,” Garrick’s rumbling voice echoed. He approached easily, sliding his sword back into his belt. “Rosch would have keelhauled me for that, for sure. You’re a good man.”

Harkow couldn’t say, but he thought he caught a glint of emotion beneath the steel of Castor’s cold expression. He smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Well, boys—we’ve still got work to do before the day is out. And I’m not inclined to tell Rosch of this until we have another buyer for the steel.”

Garrick agreed. “I’ll set myself to it.” He cast a final wave of gratitude at Castor and made his way down onto the quay.

Harkow turned to find Castor with furrowed brows. He smiled in reassurance, and ghosted a hand across Castor’s own. “Come,” he cajoled. “The sooner we finish, the sooner I can thank you properly.”

The sensuality of that final statement brought Castor out of his brooding. He smiled in return, and followed Harkow’s footsteps back toward the cargo hold.


	7. Chapter 7

The next day Harkow stood down on the docks, turning a rock over absently in his fingers. The roar of the surf crashing on the shore drowned the call of sailors on the dozen ships surrounding him. He’d spent the night with Castor again at the tavern, and come early to the ship to attend his duties. After the scene with Livie the day before, he’d thought it best Castor remain behind—Garrick had not found a second buyer for the steel yet, and when Captain Rosch heard the news, he had been predictably irate. Only swift talk and lack of mentioning the translator’s name made Harkow certain both Castor and Garrick were not in danger of a lashing or worse. And to ensure his lover remained out of the crossfire, he elected to do his day’s work alone.

Rosch had sent him off as soon as he rose. For once, Harkow left in a pleasant mood despite it all. Now he wandered the quay and waited until the promised time.

“You are early.”

The voice came behind him, strong and unreadable as the sea. He turned and found Castor watching him with a pleasant smile.

He smiled in turn. “As are you. I did not expect you so soon.”

With a light-hearted shrug, “Perhaps I was eager to see you again.”

The confession warmed his smile. He resisted the urge greet the man with a kiss. Instead, he strode past and clapped him on the shoulder. “Then let’s be away. I have something to show you.”

Castor raised his brows in question.

“Do not look so worried,” he laughed. “After our adventures elsewhere, anything I can conjure will seem dull.”

“I had thought we might take a walk,” Castor said suddenly, “out to the cape. I would enjoy spending the afternoon alone.”

Harkow did not flinch, but the repetition of the request made suspicion spike in his gut. Quieted now by days of intimacy, but still alert. “Perhaps,” he said neutrally. “But first, I’d like to show you something.”

Castor stood for a moment, then stepped to match his stride. “Where are you taking me?”

He smiled—“Somewhere new.”

They walked in silence past the harbor gates and took the main road north into the city.

“You plan to get me drunk,” Castor said suddenly, in the way that said he already knew.

Harkow wondered at his companion’s intuition. He thought about negating it, but knew there was little point; Castor had guessed true. “Are you averse to it?”

Hesitation, then, “…I suppose not.”

They turned onto a side road. There was the other reason he took Castor to trek into unknown territory this afternoon—despite his gratitude for Castor’s handling of Livie yesterday, he knew they angered one of the most vicious crime-inclined merchants in Rodaley. Livie had many allies on the street, but as far as he knew, her influence did not sway to the Lai. He walked at a brisk pace that Castor matched easily. Harkow glanced over to him every so often, taking in the astute set of his features and the quiet air of his bearing; knowing the steel that lay beneath, it intrigued him all the more. Castor was more an enigma now than when they’d first met—he just hoped a few drinks would loosen his tongue.

They crossed into the Lai quarter, and the scenery changed. Where before there were squat houses constructed of white brick and mortar, and the streets lined with a tidied array of flower boxes and windows, here was a mad mixture of colors, merchant wagons and women in flowing skirts. The streets became narrower, and the upper stories of the houses overhung the streets, creating a kind of tunnel effect that kept out the worst of the rain during the wet season, but felt almost claustrophobic in the high heat of summer. They made quick time, weaving through the crowd. It was still early in the afternoon, and the majority of people still bustled about their work. Harkow relished the freedom he had, as a sailor. He could hardly imagine walking these streets every day, at the same time, seeing the same faces and setting himself up in the same tavern, night after night with nothing to look forward to but another day of the same monotonous routine.  He enjoyed making his way around the taverns of the city—the ones that would welcome him—and many of the crew made a point to drink themselves to oblivion at least once during their shore leave.

Something told him Castor was not the sort to drink often; he grinned at the thought of what lay before them, and what lascivious acts might come afterward.

They turned down a narrow block leading back to another side street. On the corner, an out-hanging sign marked with a white horse announced the entrance.

“Here we are,” he said easily. “The Pale Mare.”

Castor eyed the front of the tavern with suspicion. “Why is it called the Pale Mare?”

“The same reason any inn is named,” he laughed as he reached for the door. “Because the owner was drunk.”

Castor smirked despite himself and followed Harkow through the entrance.

A vast, open common room met them, with small nooks built into the outer walls to house more private tables and a long commune table in the center. Maids in brightly colored skirts whirled about the place, bringing rich-smelling food on earthenware plates to the customers who trickled in. Harkow gave the place a once-over, then chose a table far in the back, away from the hearth and tucked into deep recess in the painted wall.

He gestured for Castor to have a seat, then hailed one of the maids. She headed their way and he nodded in greeting.

“Mead, if you have it, and a plate of potatoes,” he asked.

She nodded and disappeared back through the service door.

He turned his attention back to his companion; the expression on Castor’s face was loose, but beneath it, Harkow sensed an unease he’d never seen in the man. He tried to lighten the mood. “…How did you fare, this morning?”

Castor glanced over to him, as if coming out of a private thought. “Well as ever. Though the tavern noise does not suit me.”

This amused him. “Where do you usually sleep?”

Castor’s lips pressed in grim humor. “Wherever I can. I find lodging easily enough if I need it—a quick tongue can win you many things.”

He could not tell if Castor were earnest, or having a laugh at his expense. “I’ve seen what your tongue can do,” he smirked in turn. “I’d believe it.”

Their ale arrived shortly, and behind it a plate of charred potatoes doused in foreign spices. Conversation died as they both took their fill; though through the corner of his eye, Harkow appraised Castor with a different sort of appreciation. A man who survived and thrived in the harsh world of the streets had, by necessity, a unique set of skills.

“I’d no idea you had an ear for languages,” he tried at last.

Castor nodded noncommittally.

It seemed his companion was intent on remaining tight-lipped. Harkow considered his glass of mead for a moment, then smiled. “Have you ever played serpent-tongue?”

Confusion. He reached out and took a drink. “No.”

Deciding his mind for certain, Harkow raised a hand and made an exaggerated wave to the maid. He held out two fingers, and mimed a deck of cards. Her eyes brightened and she nodded in amiable compliance. Harkow slunk back down in his chair. “Then it’s time I teach you,” he said with a roguish smile.

....

They spent the rest of the afternoon nested at their table in the tavern, drinking heavily and playing at cards. Harkow took time to explain the purpose—four suits of elements and eight master cards that trumped all others. Castor could not be sure, but he suspected the point of the game was to divert his attention from how much mead they were drinking. He kept a sharp eye on his glass and only drank as much as he knew was wise. Harkow jibed him about it, but Castor noted he took a similar pace; neither were interested in losing their edge.

When the candles at last were lit and the maids made rounds with plates of roast meat and spiced grains, Castor fell back in his chair with a sigh. It had been one of the most pleasant afternoons he had ever spent; once he accepted they would not be returning to the sea that day, he settled comfortably in Harkow’s company and appreciated it for what it was—the camaraderie of a friend. A lover. It was a strange concept to him; the only friendly company he’d ever had with a human came while seducing them to their deaths. But this afternoon, this beautiful sanctuary of good food, good drink and friendly company, warmed him in a way he’d never known.

And now by the light of the candles and flickering hearth, he appraised Harkow with a sad resignation. Several days in without shaving, his sun-worn face was made more rugged by a short, scruffy beard. The traces of wrinkles on his brow were ones of laughter, and the spark in his eye held a fey edge that warned any who crossed him would come to regret it. He was a strange enigma of honor and ruthlessness, practicality and abstracted ideals. Had there been any of Castor’s prey he wished were not so, it was this man.

But Harkow was, and Castor already knew his fate. When the next game of serpent tongue drew to a close, Castor shuffled his cards together and handed them back to his companion. “That is the last for me, tonight.”

Harkow laughed in agreement. “Sick of winning, eh?”

Castor smirked—“You are a poor liar, for a pirate.”

“An honest rogue…” he said with wistful tones. “I suppose I should stick to what I do best, then.”

“And what is that?” Castor baited.

Harkow’s hand found his leg under the table and slid up the crux of his breeches. “Swordplay.”

Castor laughed—a deep, hearty laugh made richer by the warmth of the room about them. He leaned back, and surreptitiously guided Harkow’s hand to grope him harder. “That, I agree with entirely.”

A lascivious fire slid across Harkow’s flushed face; he let his hand linger a moment longer, then withdrew and moved to stand. “I feel myself in the mood for a sparring match now, actually,” he said with weighted tone. “What say we make our way back?”

Castor did not need to ask where what he meant—back to their refuge at the Fisherman’s Hole. In a thought that surprised even himself, Castor named it was a single word: _home_.

The realization he was beginning to consider a human tavern a place of rest made his brows furrow, and he rose with sudden solemnity, only nodding in agreement.

....

Night had fallen in earnest when they emerged from the Pale Mare out onto the darkened street. Lamps had been lit at every street corner, but there were still places beyond the reach of the light. Harkow let the salty breeze clear his mind and refresh his energy as they walked; one hand rest on the hilt of his sword, and the second remained lax at his side, ready to turn and draw. It was unlikely they would encounter trouble—they were two strong-built men on some of the most peaceful streets in the city, and his sword would be visible to any who gave them more than a passing glance. Still, he had not survived as long as he had by trusting the night.

His wariness proved to be a boon when, as the buildings began to fade to the dereliction of the burned district, he sensed shadows slip into the street behind them, and another in the darkness ahead.

“James…”

Castor’s hard voice broke the stillness, and his steps slowed.

Harkow slowed as well, and scanned the terrain they found themselves in. Their trek across the city had brought them into the dead of night and there were no others in sight. Yet he heard the faintest rustle in the darker shadows along the path of the alley. “I hear them,” he said in answer.

Castor’s silence spoke of surprise.

“You’re not the only one with street ears,” Harkow growled lowly. He sized up the closest structures—one looked to vacant, with shattered windows and black char still fanned upward across the grey brick surface. In a moment, he deemed it suitable and grabbed Castor’s hand to pull him out of the street. He’d undressed Castor enough times, he knew the man didn’t usually carry a weapon; he drew a knife from his boot. “It’s not much,” he hissed, handing it to the man at his side. “But better than nothing.”

Castor accepted it with silence.

Harkow turned to face the coming figures; it would be him against however many were moving in the darkness beyond. He counted three. He backed up against the wall of the abandoned structure, drew his blade, and waited.

He did not have to wait long. In moments, the figures emerged from the long shadows of the street and into the moonlight. There was one, a man with dark features and beady eyes, who held a dagger at ready. The next man had a good deal more bulk and broad shoulders, light hair and a large scar down the side of his cheek. A third stepped from the alley to box them in; she wore a low-slung cloak with a short sword already drawn. The last who strode up between the others was a tall woman of middle years. The dagger and sword in her hands, however, made Harkow certain she was no aging civilian.

“Leave us be,” Harkow warned, sensing where this was headed.

The woman in the middle laughed, echoed by a sadistic grin from the big man. “You’ve sunk your boot too far in the shit this time, Harkow,” the older rogue countered. “I do not know what you did to make Livie so furious, but it was a bad move.”

Harkow understood, then—this wasn’t a mugging. It was an execution. “You lot turn around, and we won’t give hunt. Livie asks, I never saw you.”

The big man on the leader’s right chuckled. “It’s your head for its weight in gold, Harkow. And your head isn’t worth much to me otherwise.”

Harkow rolled his shoulder and hefted his blade. “Let it not be said I gave you no chance.” And then, before another word could be spoken, he launched on the leader.

The move was unexpected, but the rogue threw up her sword to block just in time. A dagger came at Harkow’s gut, but he shoved the blade away with a downward parry. He used momentum to swipe at the woman’s knees, but the other was too quick and jumped out of reach. He heard a voice cry out behind him, but it wasn’t Castor’s. A smile cracked Harkow’s face at that, hoping Castor was less inexperienced than he thought.

He had no time to turn and see, because at that moment, three attackers charged him at once. He used the wall at his back as a guard, and faced them head on. His blade swung swift and clean, parrying one blow and dealing another. A quick slice through the throat downed the cloaked woman in brutal efficiency. The small man lunged at him, but he leaped out the way just in time to grab the man’s hand as it came in reach; he twisted it without mercy while swinging him around to deflect another blow from the leader.

The one went tumbling, while the leader growled a curse. Before the small man could rise, Harkow spun and drove his blade through his neck, earning a strangled cry. The leader’s blade sang just past his ear as he did so, and Harkow whirled to meet her.

A sharp kick to the back of his knee by the dying man brought Harkow to his knees, and he cursed in surprise. The large sword of the leader came swinging down to cleave his head; thinking fast, Harkow grabbed a fistful of soot and gravel from the street and flung it in the woman’s face while rolling to dodge the blow. While she coughed and struggled to see, Harkow jumped to his feet in a bound and sliced the woman’s gut open beneath her leather tunic. As she fell in crying agony, Harkow kicked the blades from her hands and sliced her head clean off.

Harkow stood in the center of the bloodshed, sword resting in his grip loosely and ready to strike again at a moment’s notice. He felt the rage of battle coursing through his veins, spiked by adrenaline and survival instinct. The three rogues lay dead at his feet, and he followed the trail of blood to where the fourth lay, neck twisted at an unnatural angle. Castor knelt beside him. His breath came in pants, and Harkow noticed, his face twisted in an expression of anger and feral triumph. Then his eyes rose, and captured Harkow’s own.

The sight nearly knocked his breath from his lungs—those eyes were cold, heartless, and blazing in the battle won. “He… He is dead,” came Castor’s voice through the night.

He had a brief moment to wonder at the knife still sheathed in Castor’s belt. Then instinct kicked in and he strode to Castor’s side, helping him to his feet. He encountered more resistance than he expected, as if the other’s body were weighted with lead.

“We need to be gone from here,” he urged. “The guards will be here soon, and no matter our story, we will be at fault.”

Castor took one more moment to gaze down on the murdered man, then nodded. “I will follow you.”

The affirmation lit fire beneath Harkow’s feet, and he started off down the alley with Castor on his heels. He wiped his blade on his sash as he ran; before they hit the street, he’d sheathed it once more. For as brutal a fight as it had been, there was very little blood on his clothing. He untied the sash and stuffed it in the pouch at his hip. His feet found the path of their own accord, and in minutes, they had turned in the direction of the Fisherman’s Hole.

When they reached the corner of the proper street, Harkow slowed his jog to a steady walk; his heart pounded in his chest. Not from exertion, or fear or even guilt—he’d killed men before, and for lesser reasons. But in his mind he still saw Castor’s feral eyes, and the ferocity he had shown in the face of armed . He did not know what to make of it. But then, he was learning there was more to Castor than even he had guessed. And he intended to discover just what the man’s secret was. But tonight, he wanted nothing more than to forget everything that had just occurred.

They reached the door and approached calmly, as though they came from a walk about the gardens instead of fleeing from the scene of murder.

Stepping through, they were met with the pungent aroma of baked potatoes and fried fish. He stopped by the bar momentarily, and was gladdened to see Castor move to take their usual table in the far corner. Harkow waited for the barkeeper to return with two cups of wine before taking them in hand a returning to the table himself. The alcohol would serve a double purpose—one, to calm his racing mind and Castor’s lingering fey mood, and two, it gave them a plausible alibi, depending on how soon the bodies were found. Perhaps a weak thought, but at the moment, he didn’t much care.

He set the earthenware mugs down with a clunk, and slid into his seat beside Castor.

“…Here,” he said in explanation. “For your nerves.”

Castor accepted it with a frown. “My nerves are fine.”

“Then for _my_ nerves,”’ he said, gesturing once again. With reluctance Castor took a sip, and Harkow down a large swig of his own. “Where did you learn to… to do that?” he said, mindful not to speak details aloud in case another patron were listening.

Castor frowned and studied his ale. “It is how I have always fought.”

To think of Castor as a young man on the streets of some foreign city, snapping the neck of an attacker, both impressed and unsettled him. “Were there no knives where you come from?”

Castor looked to the bottom of his glass. “I do not know. I never used them.”

“Huh…” Harkow waved to the maid for another round. “And was that your first, then?”

He glanced up quizzically. “My first?”

Harkow nodded, and tried to convey his meaning with silence.

Castor understood. His fist clenched, though the expression on his face one of resignation. “…No. It was not.”

They sat in silence for a long while, and downed another three glasses of wine each. Watching the drinks disappear down Castor’s throat, Harkow had a vague understanding that they were both taking more than wise to remain alert. But the warmth of the hearth fire at their backs and the close walls of the inn lulled him into a fall sense of security—if the guards had not tracked them by now, they were unlikely to, tonight.

Somewhere into the fourth glass, Castor began to tilt unsteadily in his chair. Even sotted, Harkow recognized the look of a man struggling to hold onto consciousness. He chuckled warmly and threaded a hand through the back of Castor’s hair. He leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“Let’s head upstairs. The room is still ours.”

Castor’s head swiveled awkwardly to catch him in a suspicious stare.

That brought a laugh rumbling from Harkow’s chest. “I told you, I’m keeping you as long as I can.”

A crooked smile, and for a moment, Harkow thought Castor would kiss him. But instead he nodded and began rising out of his chair. “You are a disaster,” he said playfully.

Harkow wasn’t sure of the meaning behind the words, but he came to Castor’s side to wrap an arm around his waist and support him to the stairs. A thought of caution passed through him, knowing they were being very public with their affection; but if he could not help a drunkard up a flight of stairs without question, he had very little hope the rest of their actions had gone unnoticed. And in truth, it felt good—solid, knowing there were others in the tavern who would envy him for just that.

....

The stairs proved less of a challenge than Harkow feared, and in minutes they were stumbling down the third floor hallway to the soot-streaked door he had come to think of as theirs, in the short time they’d known it.

He fumbled with the door handle, then nearly stumbled forward when it gave before he was ready. Castor’s arm around his side felt like a dead weight, and he pulled him into the room and shut the door. He knew they were drunk—both of them. But after a night of death and blood, it was a release. He managed to make it to the bed, and Castor flopped on the cot as soon as they reached it.

“…You are playing with fire, James.”

Harkow searched for Castor’s face in the darkness; the words were ominous, and woeful. “What?”

“I can hear your thoughts,” came the reply. “How you mean to make me one of your crew.”

The phrase was awkward, and the knowledge unnerved him. He had not spoken to Castor of that, the scenarios that had been brewing in his mind for the last hour. Whether Castor knew it or not, he would be a wanted man in Rodaley. It wasn’t safe for him to stay. And he had proved a dozen times he could survive on the _Morag Rose_ better than most men. “…And what if I do?”

He shook his head vehemently. “I am fire,” he explained in slurred discord. “I’m a bane, not gift. You think of me as a gift. But you cannot.”

He wasn’t making any sense. Harkow released a tired sigh and unstrapped his sword belt. “You’re shaken from the fight. It happens to every man—seeing death, it shakes him up. Makes him question things.”

Again Castor denied him. “I have seen death. I have been death. It does not shake me.” A hand landed across Harkow’s lap, affectionate and without censure. “ _You_ … You shake me.”

A small grin. “I know what you mean.”

“No,” Castor negated. “You do not. You cannot. I never had a man, not in earnest, before I had you. And now I am so hungry, but I… I cannot eat.”

That sounded disconcertingly like love, had it not been for the weighted edge to his words. He laid his sword by the side of the bed and flopped down at Castor’s side, pulling against him with a drunken nuzzle. “We can eat in the morning. You’ll see. All will be well.”

Then Castor’s mouth was against his own, and hands were under the hem of his shirt. The slovenly kiss spoke of unmet need. Harkow pulled him closer, kissing back with as much reassurance as he could muster. Castor’s hands found the laces of his breeches and fumbled over the knot. It frustrated him, and Harkow smiled to himself—Castor was definitely sotted, beyond control. He likely would have no memory of this in the morning. But he allowed the other man’s fumbling efforts at exploration. It had a pleasant effect on his cock beneath the fabric, even as Castor’s frustration grew.

“Here,” Harkow chuckled, reaching down to assist. “Slow down—you’re drunk.”

Castor did not answer, not until Harkow’s cock spilled out onto his palm, and he gripped it in solid determination. “I doesn’t matter. I want you. I want you before you die.”

Another laugh rolled from his chest. “I can’t say no to that.”

Castor’s mouth covered his own again. His second hand found the ties of Harkow’s tunic and yanked the collar open.

Harkow moaned at the sudden intensity, and moved willingly into the touch. For as much as he laughed at Castor, he himself was far from sober, and it heightened every trace of hands, tug of his cock and bite of teeth on his lips. Before long he was panting in need, vulnerable entirely to Castor’s lust.

It wasn’t enough. With a growl, Castor rolled atop him, nearly toppling over the side of the cot. “Give it to me,” he grunted hungrily, yanking his cock with rapid speed. His second hand gripped Harkow’s wrist and pinned it above his head.

It was a side Harkow had never seen of his partner. He inhaled sharply, trying to keep his senses alert. “Take it,” he challenged. “It’s already yours.”

Castor moaned and undulated his hips. He moved with increasing coordination, sealing his lips across Harkow’s and panting in desperation. His breath was strangely cool in Harkow’s mouth, like the bite of frost. He had a vague thought at that’s oddity before an even stranger sensation engulfed him—like being underwater, he found he could not breathe.

It struck a panic in him that jolted him awake. He fought, struggled beneath Castor’s punitive grip, tried to cry out. But Castor’s mouth sealed over his own, sucking the very air from his lungs, and the hand on his cock leapt to capture his other wrist. He was strong—stronger than Harkow thought possible. His eyes flashed open to meet Castor’s own only to find them cold and lifeless, glazed over in a milky haze like a blind fish.

Then a flash of pain. Like the flesh were being torn from his rib cage while his lungs convulsed, gasping for air that would not come. He wrenched a hand free in rage and swung a fist. It clipped Castor’s ribs but had no effect. He writhed, struggling against the panic now threatening to incapacitate him. He threw another punch aimed at Castor’s head, a third at his hip and simultaneously brought his knee up to his groin.

Castor’s mouth tore from his own with a sickening cry, and Harkow finished him with another knee shoving him up and off to the end of the cot. Castor tumbled over the side and disappeared onto the floor. Harkow gulped air like a fish out of water, but life returned to his lungs swiftly as he scrambled for his sword. He teetered to a stand, unsheathing it with fluid grace despite his drunken state.

But the strength of a weapon in his hand did not stop it from trembling as he raised the blade level against his lover, now sprawled on the squalid floor in the corner of the room.

“What…” Harkow gasped. “What in all hell…”

Then, in the faint glow of moonlight, he saw Castor’s face—unnaturally pale, eyes wide in milky blindness, with a smatter of dark patches across his jawbone that gleamed like scales. From beneath his lips, a row of wicked fangs protruded, too large to be concealed.

Harkow inhaled sharply. An unnatural sickness settled in his chest; it gripped his heart like the cold hand of death, and he swallowed a knot of bile threatening to force vomit. Fear rode through him—wild, unbridled fear.

He shuffled his feet slowly, edging sideways toward the door.

“James…”

The rumble came deep from within Castor’s throat, unnatural and sonorous. Harkow felt it resound down to his core. His mind stormed in a whirlwind of warring thoughts, laced with panic and blurred by intoxication. He was in danger—he knew that. And despite the rage and sorrow that burned through his chest, instinct shoved him in the direction of the door. He fumbled the latch, and fled.


	8. Chapter 8

_He dreamt. And in his dreams, he was drowning; tossed and battered by underwater currents, unable to find the surface. There was danger in the water—he sensed it, a great leviathan lurking in the depths around him. He fought to breathe, fought to rise, but no matter which way he turned, he met nothing but water. An endless oblivion from which there could be no escape—_

Harkow woke with a gasp.

Air hit his lungs in a blast of life-giving force. His eyes flew open. A wooden ceiling was above him, and sunlight warmed the planks. He lay on a flat surface, cradled by fabric. Instinct reached for his sword, only to find it wasn’t there. He sat bolt upright with a jolt.

Pain seared down his spine, but he forced through it to take in the little room around him, the close quarters, sea trunk and table spread with maps. The bed on which he lay. The roll of the sea beneath him.

He was home.

Memory of last night flitted through his mind, tangled and at times hazy. He remembered the ambush in the streets, and killing Livie’s fighters. Fleeing through the night with Castor at his side; the tavern, the drinking. Returning to their room.

His heart raced in panic and his gaze flitted around the cabin in compulsive defense; fear he had somehow been followed, that Castor would be lurking in the corner still in hideous form spiked his heart. But the quarters were empty. Through the walls he heard the tolling of bells, and the steady feet of a crewman paced the deck. All was as it should be.

He flopped back on the cot with an exhausted sigh and tried to make sense of what had happened. They had talked and Castor demanded something—Harkow told him to take it. And then he had been drowning. Castor had become something more, something dangerous. The memories were muddled and surreal, but beneath them coursed a current of terror that he could not banish. Castor, the man he had come to trust, perhaps even love, was not a man at all. There were tales told by sailors of sea-fey, sirens who fed on shipwrecked souls. Some even said they could disguise themselves in the form of humans, walking as wolves among sheep in search of prey.

Tales of fancy told by old men to scare the young and green. At least, that’s what Harkow had thought. The nightmarish haze of Castor’s voice, reverberating through his skull in a deep and rumbling call, haunted him to the core.

Another thought came to him, then. They would be leaving port today. If Captain Rosch were sober, he would already be gathering the crew and making ready to sail.

With a twinge of bitter gratitude, he knew the captain would not be sober.

Sorrow welled in him. It wrestled with his reason, which told him to be grateful Rodaley would soon be behind them, and Castor no more than a terrible memory. He had duties on the ship this morning—even if he wanted to search the man out, there would be no time.

 But for the first time in his dark and tumultuous life, he found himself holding a man in higher regard than the ship he called home. And he knew what he needed to do, if he were ever to leave this port on the horizon without regret.

**...**

In the darkness of the sordid inn room, Castor lay on the unforgiving floorboards. His skull ached, his throat was scratchy and hoarse, and beneath it all, the hunger in his chest devoured him, body and soul. Memories of the night before were hazy at best—there had been voices, dozens of voices, and alcohol. He remembered Harkow’s roguish smile, sitting across the table from him. He remembered his husky voice and the scratch of his beard on his cheek, suggesting they retreat to a private room. He remembered intimacy, and then…

Then he lost control. His cursed form escaped.

The memory brought him fully to wake—Harkow had run.

As he should have. Castor lay unmoving. He needed water; he knew that. But summoning the strength to stand seemed a greater task than he could accomplish. A weight was in his chest and in his throat. Anger, and sorrow of a kind he had never known before. Perhaps this is what the human poets spoke of, when they sang of regret.

He would need to find another, and quickly, if he wanted to survive beyond the coming evening. What small sustenance he’d torn from Harkow last night had bought him time, but only just enough. He needed to rise and begin searching.

But he found he could not muster the strength required to move—the hunger within him dulled in comparison to the truth of what he had lost to it.  He closed his eyes against the harsh light of morning and let the searing headache drive out all other thoughts. A small part of him took comfort in the knowledge Harkow had been driven beyond his reach. To this end, Castor smiled at death: he knew where he wanted to greet it.

 

....

On the shores of the cape, Harkow tread across the sand, taking in the beauty surrounding him. The walls of the cliffs rose high on every side, save the sea. Summer vines clambered up their crags, twisting and twining in intricate plexus across the unforgiving stone. Unbidden, a smile warmed his face—against all odds, the vines had grown in defiance of nature and the barren stone faces they chose as their home. In the darkest shade, a few buds had bloomed, casting their faces in defiance of the world.

His eyes trailed down their shafts to the cool, crystalline waters below. The cove was a near perfect oval, hollowed out by years of shifting tides and blasting winds off the sea. The sand curved around in swaths, open invitation to any who would hear.

And there, resting against a boulder at the edge of the water, sat Castor.

Harkow paused. He seemed as he remembered—a man in full, with sharp steel eyes that gazed out over the surf. He still wore his ragged tunic and breeches. His feet were bare, resting mere inches from the reach of the waves lapping at the shore. His expression was quiet, resigned. Somehow, it unnerved him on the stoic and hard-edged man he had known.

Only a beat, then he decided his mind and began walking in Castor’s direction.

Castor did not turn as he drew nearer. Like that first day on the shore, he kept his gaze out on the horizon, as if listening to words Harkow could not hear.

When he drew nearer, Castor’s voice met him.

“…You should not have come.”

The words were cold. Resigned. More than ever, it cemented in Harkow’s mind the necessity that he had. He let silence descend between them—familiar, like a melody they already knew. A kind of resignation filled his own chest, and he bent to sit on the sand at Castor’s side, adjusting his sword and settling in comfortably.

Castor’s gaze flitted to him then, out of the corner of his eye. The gesture brought a sad, ghostly smile. “You do not know what you risk. It was foolish to come after me.”

“More foolish than leaving you?” he asked.

The sorrow deepened. “Infinitely.”

Harkow sighed, and scratched his chin. “To my mind, you owe me a tale. And I will not leave without it.”

“The only tales I know end in death.”

“So do most,” Harkow said grimly. “But I would hear them.”

A small smile of resignation. “What story would you have, then?”

He rested his hands on his knees and fixed his eyes on the horizon. “Yours.”

 

....

Castor had known the request before Harkow spoke it, just as he had known who approached, long before Harkow crossed the sands of the cove. Enervation slowed his mind, and his grasp on the twining threads of Harkow’s thoughts grew faint. But in a small way, it pleased him. He could face death not as he was, but as the man Harkow had come to know, free from the burden of thought. Of thought, but not of hunger.

“It begins a long time ago,” he confessed. “On the waters of a distant sea. There was a kingdom, strong and proud, who rode the waves on ships gilt in gold. They were a mighty people, and their fleets were known as the greatest on the sea. They were ruled by wise and noble leaders who made allegiance with all the lands around them, swearing to defend them as their own.” He inhaled deeply, summoning strength to continue. “…But the line of wise rulers failed, and bit by bit, corruption crept into the halls of the nobility. A mighty enemy rose in the west, and war came on black wings.

“The other kingdoms rallied to drive the invaders out from their lands. They called for help from the great king of the gilded ships. Nine fleets were promised to be sent at their allies’ back. But when the time came, no ship arrived. Thousands died upon the waves who had been looking to the horizon for salvation only to find betrayal and death.”

Harkow hung in silence, drinking in his words.

It gave Castor courage. “The treachery was unspeakable. And at the rise of the next dawn, every man and woman in the royal city found themselves changed. A hunger devoured them no food or drink would satisfy. Soon they turned on one another, driven mad by it. Many died, starving for something they did not know. Others fled to ships in their madness, seeking to right the treachery of their leaders. But nothing could be done. One by one they fell into the sea, too weak to stand.” He came to it at last, and hesitated. “It is said when they hit the waves, their forms… changed.”

That drew Harkow’s attention—eyes darted up to match Castor’s own. Apprehension and fascination flowed through Castor’s mind, an echo of Harkow’s thoughts. Castor steeled himself, knowing the next words would be his damnation.

“They became… monstrous. Not human, but not animals, either. Something different—something more.”

“More?”                                                                                   

Castor sighed restlessly. “The hunger they felt… It was for the human soul. They became predators, destroyers of the sea. When the hunger became great enough, they found they could walk among humans, but only for a time. And then if they could not lure a soul back to the sea to devour, they died. It is said to this day, on the shores of that faraway land, the beaches are riddled with the bones of the cursed who died of slow starvation, unable or unwilling to devour a soul to sustain them.”

At that, Harkow’s expression hardened. “And those that survived? What became of them?”

Castor could no longer hold his gaze; his eyes fell, back to the gentle tumble of the waves. “…They learned. They survived, and bore children. The once mighty people became a sundered race. Some searched for redemption, but found none. The sea itself had cursed them, and they accepted their doom.”

 

...

The words came as death-knells to Harkow, sealing what he had begun to suspect—that there was no remedy for the truth of what Castor was. What he had always been. He looked upon him in mixed awe and sorrow; Castor gazed out the sea, as the cursed of his tale. The twisted image of Castor’s bones at his feet in the sand, picked clean by time and decay, then washed away in the tide invaded his mind. The tale was more than an explanation of his nature; it was a forewarning of his fate, as well.

It was not a reality Harkow could accept. “How does it happen?”

Castor looked to him in enervated confusion. “…What?”

He rolled to his feet and stepped out onto the sand. “You said the cursed devour souls… How does it happen?”

Hesitation. Then, “A cursed must lure their prey out into the sea. There they are strongest and draw out their souls.”

“Draw out their souls… in a kiss,” Harkow surmised. “What you did last night.”

Shame filled Castor’s eyes, and he turned away. “Aye.”

“But we were not in the water—not even close.”

His face twisted in a pained grimace. “I… I lost control and the hunger overtook me. I knew it would not work, but… The need was too great. I couldn’t fight it.”

Harkow took in the information with a stern frown. He remembered vividly now, the cold chill of Castor’s breath with his own, the searing pain and suffocation, feeling as if he would never breathe again. “Is there no other way?”

“No other way… for what?”

“For you,” Harkow clarified. “Is there no other way for you to live, but to take a soul?”

And then he understood—but did not comprehend. “What matter is my life to you?”

The man’s ignorance to his affect was astounding. Harkow cursed under his breath, “By hell… You have ruined me, Castor. I stand when I should run, go when I should stay, and have thoughts of years to come. I’ve never had this mind, about anyone.”

Castor acknowledged it with a grimace.

“Is there no other way?” he repeated.

Harkow’s voice was a plea, desperate.  It tugged at Castor’s heart, even as an illness sank in his gut. “There… There is,” he confessed. “But it is nigh impossible—and will only act as a delay, not a remedy.”

Harkow’s brows furrowed. “I am listening.”

Castor inhaled, knowing its futility. “…You must fight me.”

His brows raised in surprise.

Castor continued, “You must fight my cursed form in the water. It is said when a mortal marked for death overcomes the cursed, he avenges those that fell in the slaughter of ancient days. He is granted nine years of life—one for each of the fleets promised by the damned—and lives with the cursed as his ally.”

“Nine years?”

Castor confirmed. “…In human form. I would be unable to return to my cursed state until the deal is finished. And when it is…” He inhaled for courage. “The sea will take its debt—whether you are upon the sea or not, your life will be the cost.”

“You will kill me,” he said, in a tone that left no hint of doubt.

Disgusted with the thought, Castor averted his gaze.

And Harkow sighed, rubbing his chin. He looked out to roll of the incoming surf—the _Morag Rose_ would be making ready soon. But he knew he did not want to be on it. Not without Castor at his side. “So, the way I see it… either one of us dies, or we both live.”

“Only for a time,” he argued. “Nine years, and no more.”

Harkow smiled. “Nine years is longer than I expect to live, even with luck on my side.”

Castor did not share his enthusiasm. “You would need to fight me first. Defeat me. It is impossible—”

“I’ve fought you once already,” Harkow reminded. “I survived.”

“You survived because I was too weak,” he answered with bitterness. “Out of the water, we are near powerless.”

“And in?”

Castor’s gaze drew back to him. An edge came to his eye, the old spark of danger that had drawn Harkow to him days ago on the shore of the sea. “I become a monster. Untamable. Unstoppable.”

Harkow’s expression hardened. To face a monster would be more reckless than even he was wont; but the alternative shadowed his mind like a death shroud. Facing the years ahead with nothing—only drink and gold to tame the blood—was a thought he could no longer bear. A wild, fey determination came upon him. He stepped forward. “Show me.”

…

Castor bit his tongue, trying to silence the hunger now rising at Harkow’s assertion. “I cannot.”

“You will not,” he challenged, stepping back into the surf. The waves washed around his knees, soaking his boots and the bottom of his breeches. “You fear I will be powerless against you. But you underestimate me.”

Castor watched him descend into the water until the pull of the waves washed around his hips. Harkow stood, solid and strong, a wild man in a wild sea. His eyes wandered the hard muscle of his form, visible even beneath his tunic, now soaking through with the slash of the surf. It was a sight made doubly seductive by the hunger now rising like a beast all its own in his gut. He bit back a pained grimace. “I do not want you to die.”

“You think I cannot stop you,” Harkow qualified. His voice rose above the height of the waves. “You forget I already have.”

As being tugged by an invisible thread, Castor rose. “You wrestled me on land, while I was drunk and dying.”

A playful smile crept across his face. “I was drunk, too. Do you honestly worry I am so feeble?”

Despite himself, Castor advanced; the waves rolled over his feet, inviting him further. A feral grin to match Harkow’s own took his features. “…You are tempting fate, James.”

Harkow had reached the edge of the underwater cliff. He pushed off and tread water a yard out. “This isn’t about fate,” he called in taunt. “This is about you and me. The choice we have.”

In the back of his mind, Castor knew he was the one being tricked, seduced out into the sea. His strength began returning with every step, and the hunger within was coupled with a very different sort of desire—desire for the bond Harkow had given him the past few days. He knew it was foolish; he knew how this would end. “You are mad.”

“Not nearly enough,” he answered. “So what must I do?”

Castor had reached the drop off. He hesitated only a moment to search the threads of Harkow’s thought. He found only affection there, and a fey determination.

As if sensing his doubt, Harkow swam over to where he stood on the brink. A hand brushed his and grabbed it as a lover. The spark in his eye danced in mischief.

“Come,” he teased. A second hand wrapped around Castor’s waist, and then Harkow was pressed close, as they had in the bed of the tavern. “I am ready. What must I do to defeat you?”

His lips were so close, Castor could feel his breath on his skin. In a desperate murmur, he warned only: “Survive.”

Harkow nodded gently, then pulled him in for a kiss.

Castor sighed and let his feet slip from the edge. He kept afloat easily, treading water in tandem with the human. The kiss was hard, heavy; in a final resistance, Castor reined the hunger in for a moment, one beautiful moment more. Then it consumed him.

 

....

Harkow knew he was playing with fire. He also knew he must. He provoked Castor through the kiss, biting his lip in challenge. In that moment, he felt if he died, he would do so the surest he had ever been.

Then Castor’s breath grew cold against his own. His body ceased treading water, and before Harkow could react, he was pulled beneath the surface. Castor’s mouth locked over his own; then he was suffocating.

He did not hesitate, not even as he felt the human body of Castor begin to harden in his arms, scales replacing skin and fangs pricking the edge of his lips. Then came the pain—that, no amount of knowledge could have prepared him for. It seared through his veins like molten metal, dug into his flesh like knives and his bones spiked in sudden chill, as if the very marrow were being drawn out in painful torture. It was no longer the man he clung to, but the beast.

He knew enough to fight—he struggled, writhed and groped for the sword at his belt. His feet kicked in panicked fury, trying to break the surface, but Castor’s iron grip forced him down, down into the depths of the cove. He sheared his knife free from the scabbard at his hip and turned it hilt-first in a punch to the beast’s ribs, then the back of his neck. Castor began to roll with him in his grasp, faster and faster like the wild current of a hurricane. He lost all sense of direction, of depth, and nearly of purpose. But the lips sealed against his own kept him focused on the task he knew he must accomplish—defeat the cursed without killing his lover.

He gripped the knife as life itself, and in desperation, twisted his wrist to drive it into the serpentine body that had wrapped around his legs. Castor jolted and spasmed, and Harkow did it again. If he could just release the damning kiss, he could fight to break free. A third and final time he plunged the knife in, and in feral fury, the fanged creature tore away.

Harkow did not have time to think, to plan. In moments Castor would return. He opened his eyes at last, fighting the sting of brine, and saw to his left the cliff of the drop off. Large, black shapes rested at the top, remnants of boulders sucked into the sea by the waves. He fought to reach them through the bloodied water, moving with all the strength of fear and determination behind him.

His fingers touched the stone just as a clawed hand seized his ankle. Harkow cried out beneath the waves in fury and turned with a slash; his blade nearly missed Castor’s throat, and a large gash lacerated the skin at his collarbone. Shrieking in rage that echoed through the deep, Castor recoiled, and Harkow reached out toward the stone in desperate need.

His fingers gripped the rough surface, and he used the purchase to propel himself fully above it. The current tugged him back out, but he whirled in the water, made contact with the sandy bottom, and launched himself full-force at the stone.

It gave.

Harkow watched in horrified, triumphant fascination as the boulder rolled from its perch and tumbled into the cavern below. Then he pushed off the sand a final time and shot straight for the surface.

After an eternity of drowning, his head broke the waves. He coughed up a lungful of brine and gasped as if breathing for the first time, gulping down air in desperation. He turned quickly in fear; nearly thirty feet beneath him, the stone landed true. Castor was writhing, pinned by the midsection, fighting to escape with gnashing teeth.

Harkow cursed in relief and made for the shore on the near side of the cove. His legs hit bottom, and he nearly collapsed. But iron purpose drove him and he stumbled forward, scrambling in the sand. In moments he was clear of the water. He turned back to gaze out into the crystalline waters of the cape. Beneath the waves, a creature of horrible shape lay pinned and defeated.

He coughed up water and bile on the sand; his hands shook, and he could not get enough air into his lungs. He breathed hard, and long. A fear tandem to his own survival coursed through him—fear that instead of trapping Castor, he had killed him. But after another minute had passed, the monster broke the surface. Angry still, but in futility. He spun in a whirlpool and thrashed the water with his mighty tail, then made a sprint toward the shore where Harkow lay.

He hit the sand and used momentum to glide through the final breakers. Something, some feral part of him dissipated at the contact of land beneath his body, and by the time he came to rest a yard from the edge, Castor’s air was one of peace.

Harkow rose, willing his legs to steadiness, and approached.

Castor had not lied; in his cursed form, he was a formidable beast. The upper torso was his own, but dotted with deep blue scales that grew denser down his abdomen until he became entirely beast with no sign of his land-walking legs. The tail that stretched out from his hips was nearly eight feet long, and a curious mix of serpentine strength and piscine form. A great, wide tail fanned out at the end, thick and powerful as the fins of a shark. Harkow’s gaze wandered up to the man’s face, and the milky white eyes, spackled scales and row of fangs he recognized from last night in the tavern. Slitted gills lined the throat beneath them, and fanned fins sprouted from his forearms. His chest heaved, gasping as a fish out of water, struggling for life.

It was hideous, and beautiful. And Harkow had to remind himself their time was short. He reached to his side and slid his sword from its sheath. He did not think Castor would fight him, not anymore, but the mass of tail made him cautious—a blow with that would break bone, and had nearly been his death. Still panting in exertion, Harkow came to stand before him. “I told you not to underestimate me.”

A strange sound rumbled from Castor’s throat, deep and sonorous, an echo of the tavern the night before. It took Harkow a moment to realize the sound was laughter. “So you did… And now you have won.”

Heady triumph made Harkow’s heart soar. “Nine years?”

Castor nodded his head. A smile spread his fanged mouth wide. “Nine years.”

Exhausted, elated, and completely unable to believe the reality of the creature that lay before him, Harkow flopped to the sand. And then uncaring for the ferocity and danger of it, Harkow bent and captured his mouth in a kiss. Soft, wary of the fangs beneath, but as earnest a kiss as he had ever given.

“Now,” he said breathlessly, “I’ve a hammock on the _Morag Rose_ with your name on it.”

Castor grinned, an expression unwittingly predatory on his alien features. He nodded, then turned with unnatural grace and dove back into the surf, eagerly forsaking his scales for the promise of his human form.


	9. Chapter 9

The sun had risen high in the sky when Harkow and his new crewman stepped across the quay of the harbor of Rodaley. They strode with bold purpose, as though for the first time in years, they knew where they were destined. The summer sun had dried their tunics and breeches, and Harkow carried his jacket carelessly over his arm; the hilt of his blade glinted in the sun. And when they at last caught sight of the _Morag Rose_ , his mouth spread in a cocky grin.

Garrick turned from where he stood on the quarterdeck, and hailed them as they crossed the gangplank. “Hie, sir!” His voice boomed across the ship in genial relief. “We’d thought you’d scarpered!”

Harkow laughed, and turned to the man at his side. He clapped Castor on the shoulder. “Not on your life! Just tracking down a final hand to join us on the next run.”

“Ain’t that the man who double-blinded Livie?” he called.

Harkow’s grin widened. “So it is. Didn’t think I would let a man with eggs that big sign on another ship, did you?”

Garrick returned with a hearty laugh. “No, sir!” He stepped down, barking orders at the nearest man to start casting off.

Harkow looked to Castor, who remained solemn and stolid at his side. His wounds had healed, mostly, with his change back into human form, but he still favored his right leg where Harkow’s dagger had cut through. “How are you faring?”

Castor made to answer, but at that moment the door of the captain’s cabin burst open. Rosch stood dumbly, blinking back the harsh light of day. His coat was disheveled, as was the great flame of his beard and hair. He took one survey of the deck and bellowed, “Make ready to cast off!”

Harkow fought to keep from smiling—the men were already well under way, and the boom from the captain carried little weight. He stepped forward and kept his voice low, knowing anything louder would grate Rosch’s liquor-frayed nerves. “Captain, a new crewman has joined us.”

Rosch blinked and slid his eye to where Castor stood at Harkow’s side. His gaze hardened to withering appraisal, but the man did not shrink before it. Castor squared his jaw and matched Rosch’s gaze steel for steel.

“He is a translator,” Harkow offered in explanation. He could hear the edge in his own voice—Castor’s presence and the events of the morning had made him unapologetic. “He will be useful in trading ports.”

It was a statement, leaving little room for argument. For a moment, it looked as if Rosch would counter. Then he grunted noncommittally, and turned back to the blackness of his cabin. The door shut definitively behind him, and despite himself, Harkow released a sigh of triumph. “Follow me,” he said, gesturing to his own cabin. “We’ll have you sign the charter.”

Castor’s gaze lingered on the closed door of Rosch’s cabin, only for a moment, but the intensity of it gave Harkow pause.

Then he shifted as if returning from a dream and gave nod. “I will follow.”

....

The _Morag Rose_ made good time once free upon the sea. The winds favored them, and in few days they left the crystal waters of Rodaley in their wake for the darker, more turbulent spread of the northern sea. 

Castor learned his way about the ship easily with the help of Garrick and other crewman who took a liking to him. Rumors had spread like wildfire of his confrontation with Livie, and though neither Harkow nor Castor breathed a word, the fight on the streets. Someone had heard tell of it through a street spotter who claimed to have seen the whole thing—down to Castor snapping a man’s neck with his bare hands. Added to Harkow’s obvious esteem, it established Castor well as a man of danger and courage.

Castor himself kept mouth shut and ears open. There was cadence to life aboard a ship; he learned easily. He took note of the officers, the chain of command from first mate down to quartermaster, then boatswain and linemaster, riggers and crewman. In a matter of days, he had gleaned they all held their captain to the same regard Harkow did—a mad, dangerous drunk.

Castor kept his head down and his mouth shut, knowing that itself would be enough. Rosch had built his funeral pyre; all that remained was a spark to set the blaze.

 

....

Edmund Rosch paced his cabin with stumbling feet. Six days they had been at sea—six days, and already the crew were showing signs of the old restlessness. Mutterings in the sleeping quarters and half-done work, crass jokes with him as the ass. 

But worst of all was the cur that Harkow had brought aboard with him—Castor. Tales of the man’s exploits in Rodaley had grown like weeds  through the crew; they saw him as a hero for driving off one of the richest patrons of the _Morag Rose._

And worse than that, they saw Harkow as a hero. Bit by bit, his first mate was scheming to take the ship as his own. His ears in the crew had reported no trouble, but he’d survived too long on the sea to not know a mutinous first mate when he saw one.

And Harkow meant to begin with Castor. The man was a fire just waiting to catch on the dry and tinder Harkow laid for him. From the start of the voyage, Castor had played the obedient crewman. But Rosch was no fool. The man had silently circumvented him, obeying Harkow with wordless loyalty while showing Rosch no sign of respect.

It was mutiny, carried out in passive silence. And it was the chink in rigging that would bring the entire ship to a standstill.

With a growled curse, Rosch downed the final dregs of his whiskey and made for the outer door. He would put an end to this once and for all.

....

Harkow stood on the bridge, surveying the spread of the ship with casual ease. They’d made good time out of Rodaley, and the wind was at their backs. There was always a sense of relief, of windswept speed on the first few days of a voyage—with an empty hull and a full crew, the _Morag Rose_ flew over the waves in wild freedom, like a penned horse finally let free from the gate. It lifted the men’s spirits and made all look to the horizon with renewed hope.

There was something else working among the crew, too—Castor. He never would have guessed it, but the presence of Castor among the men had brought a renewed sense of camaraderie between them. Before long the tale was that Castor had taken five men with his bare hands and laughed as he did it. The added dramatics brought a smile to Harkow’s face every time he heard it; he didn’t begrudge him the admiration—he knew the true bounds of Castor’s nature, and it paled in comparison to even the wildest tellings.

He searched him out now, among the heads of the men working below. Castor had taken to life at sea with ease, and within a few days had shown himself to be a competent sailor. It surprised Harkow. But then, there were many things about Castor that surprised him. An ocean unto himself, with depths unknown. Harkow looked forward to exploring them all.

He was about to turn and converse with the helmsman when the door of the captain’s cabin thudded open.

Rosch stood, eyes wild and bloodshot, with a twisted look of hatred on his weatherworn face. He gave on look to Harkow, then stormed past him down the steps to the main deck. The boards quaked beneath the thunder of his boots, and the crew spread like birds taking flight before him. He did not stop until he had come directly before Castor, who remained focused on his work with the rigging. He did not even glance up as Rosch approached, a statue before the storm.

Harkow was racing down the stairs in an instant. As he approached, he heard Rosch’s slurred voice rumbling.

“You goat-headed dolt, look at me!”

Castor did not. His deft hands worked at unknotting the line without a missed beat.

It drove Rosch into rage. He reached out and seized Castor’s hair, yanking him to his feet. He stood eye to eye without a flinch. The strength in Castor’s eyes would not yield. But as Harkow came to a stop before the scene, he realized with apprehension Castor made no move to fight Rosch, either. Only a smile—nearly imperceptible—ghosted over his features.

“You’re a rot-gutted sack of filth,” Rosch growled. “D’you think I’m a fool? You think I don’t know a mutiny when I see one?”

_Mutiny_. The word hit Harkow like a punch in the gut. “Captain—”

“Stow it, Harkow!” Rosch bellowed. He stared Castor down a moment longer, then cast him to deck with a harsh throw.

Castor landed with a grunt, but remained silent. Even as he rolled to his feet, he said no word of challenge—which infuriated the captain all the more.

“Thirty lashes!” Rosch said loudly in judgment.

Harkow grit his teeth in anger; thirty lashes was a death sentence. “Captain—”

“And you’ll be the one to do it!” He rounded on Harkow with dangerous venom. “Unless you be privy to his plot!”

Harkow knew Rosch was provoking him—putting him in his place. But he could stand silent no longer.

“No.”

The word was quiet, but cold. Harkow stepped between Rosch and Castor, arms crossed in determined authority. “Castor’s not breathed a word of mutiny. I’ll not let him die for your drunken stupidity,” he decided. “Sleep it off, Rosch.”

In an instant, Rosch’s sword swung at Harkow’s throat.

Harkow was ready. His own blade collided with the captain’s and deflected the blow, only to dance round to defend another. Rage blazed in Rosch’s eyes as he attacked Harkow with the fury of a hound fresh from hell; drink blurred his judgment, but not his instinct, and it took everything Harkow had to keep pace with the deadly assault. From the corner of his eye, he saw the flash of steel as the nearest crew drew their weapons—whether for or against him, he did not know. Fear of a full-blown battle sparked anger in Harkow’s chest. All he could think was the blood the crew, spilled for Rosch’s madness.

“Castor!” he bellowed, even as he dodged another swing of Rosch’s blade. Before he had finished, Castor was moving into the crew with shouts of standing down. Harkow did not have long to see it; a swift kick from Rosch’s boot sent him reeling back across the deck, and he caught himself steady while hurling a curse at his attacker. The madness in Rosch’s eye, the rank fumes of whiskey and the utter hatred in his voice told Harkow there was only one way to end this—where there had been no mutiny, Rosch had created one.

A blow grazed Harkow’s shoulder, and he cried out in rage to deal one in turn. The crew had heeded Castor’s cries and stood back in a ring, watching the duel unfold. Harkow threw everything he had into breaking Rosch’s defense, but the man had more than ten years on his first mate in fighting experience; even drunk, he was a juggernaut with the strength of a bear.

At last, Harkow caught his chance. A breaker hit the ship and rocked it high—Rosch stumbled, and Harkow’s sword darted forward, disarming him in a blow. A swift kick to the gut downed him to his knees.

Harkow stood over him with a sword pressed to his throat. Everything in him screamed to finish it, rid himself of Rosch once and for all.

The captain sensed his intent. “Do it, you bastard,” he snarled. “Show me what you’re made of!”

Harkow nearly took him up on the challenge—but bitterness in Rosch’s voice evoked nothing but disgust: a man who feared death so greatly, he brought it down on his own head trying to fight it.

It would be no victory, killing Rosch. There was no reason. The man had destroyed himself already.

Harkow stepped back and lowered his sword. “It is over, Rosch. You’ll be put in port the next we dock, and consider it a mercy.”

He turned to retreat, but as he took the first steps away, a shout of treachery rose from the crew.

Before he could blink, a dagger whistled through the air past him. It lodged in Rosch’s throat with a spew of blood. Rosch toppled to the boards with a final, feral roar drowned in his own blood. As Harkow wheeled in defense, he saw Rosch had clutched a dirk hidden in his dying grasp, meant to stab Harkow as he walked away.

Such was the price of mercy, he though grimly.

He turned to find the one who had thrown the dagger that saved his life: Dorian stood on the inside of the ring, a look of ruthless triumph on his face.

“You’re fast on the draw,” Harkow said.

Dorian cracked a dark grin. “Aye, captain.”

The word made him pause—“What—”

“Rosch is dead, and we need a man to lead us,” Dorian said with firm resolve. “I’ll swear my loyalty to you.”

From the crowd, Garrick stepped up to stand at his side. “I will too, sir.”

“And I,” came a voice—the boatswain, moving up to join them.

“And I,” resounded an echo. Before Harkow could respond, the voices of the crew rose in a chorus, swearing allegiance. Harkow’s brows raised in spite of himself, and he heard a grim chuckle from Castor at his side. He turned to find a knowing smile on the cursed man’s face.

“And I.”

Harkow stood, stunned to silence by the fealty of his crew.

To a man, all had elected him captain. The _Morag Rose_ was his.


	10. Chapter 10

_Nine years later…_

 

Castor knelt before his captain, surrounded in his arms. His forehead rested against Harkow’s shoulder as he breathed in the life around them, the warmth of the embrace and the magnitude of what this had become. Nine years to the day, and they were no more ready to face this than they had been that sunlit morning at the cove when Harkow risked his life to spare his own.

He sighed and relaxed further into the hold, his head pressed to Harkow’s chest. Even now he could feel the curse beneath his skin, threatening to break free. The hunger was returning—a dull ache, but soon to grow into the ravenous destruction he had known so well. His hand wrapped the side of Harkow’s neck; he inhaled a tremulous breath. “We need to finish it, James. We cannot run anymore. We cannot—”

He was cut short by Harkow’s mouth. James claimed his lips in desperate need unbroken by the years. The ferocity broke something in him, and he gave into it, drinking in every moment, every breath exchanged between them. They devoured one another until the fire became sorrow, and sorrow became resignation. At last, when there was nothing more to give, to say, Harkow pressed his forehead against Castor’s own. Both knew the time had come. Both knew it could only end in death.

A knock broke the silence of the cabin.

“Captain! You’re needed at the helm!”

The panic in the voice jolted them both to their feet. Outside, a gust of wind blasted the starboard side and sent the ship creaking in agony. Knowledge shot through Castor like a spike of poison—the sound of thunder rumbled overhead. On its heels, a driving sheet of rain crashed against the rafters above them in unbroken fury.

The storm had come.

“No…” he breathed.

Harkow was already moving. He swept up his coat and ran for the door.

 

....

When Harkow flung the cabin door wide, a blast of wind struck his face with rain. He blinked through the deluge to find a young deckhand, Simms, staring back at him with stricken fear.

“It came out of nowhere, captain! The storm—”

Harkow shouldered past him into the torrent. All around, men scrambled to batten down hatches and clear the rigging. A flash of lightning struck the water less than a hundred meters to the starboard in tandem with a clap of thunder that sent his ears ringing. Confusion blasted through his mind and chest; in moments, it was replaced by cold determination.

“Trim the sails best you can, lads!” he bellowed below. “Open the scuppers!” To Simms he turned and shouted, “Get to the linemaster! Tell him to take in sail!”

Simms took off down the steps as Harkow turned in grim fury to the helm. Dorian stood there, clinging with all might to the wheel to keep it from blowing the ship pell-mell in the waves. He raced to the man’s side and grabbed the spokes.

“Captain!” The relief on Dorian’s face was clear, and he hastily relinquished his post. “We never saw it coming! It came like… like…”

“Like magic,” Harkow growled. “Get to the quartermaster! He’ll need to take control of the ship!”

Dorian’s face drew in fear and disbelief. “Captain—”

“I said go!” he bellowed.

Dorian hesitated only a moment more, then followed in Simms’ footsteps down to the main deck.

Then Harkow felt it—Castor’s presence at his side.

He clung to the wheel, oscillating tug and release to keep the rudder from snapping. The imperative to keep the ship out of the worst of the storm was broken by the knowledge that they could not outrun this—not when the storm centered on the ship itself.

“We must go, James.” Castor’s voice came through the roar, a low murmur that echoed through his bones. He did not need to look; he knew the milk-white sheen had taken Castor’s eyes. He knew the monster had come.

“I cannot leave them,” he fought back. “Not with this storm on them! They need a captain!”

A hand rested on his shoulder, calm in the midst of chaos. “Garrick will take them,” he said easily. “We are the ones who damn them. The storm is our doing.”

“We can fight it!” he demanded. “There must be a way—”

“There is no way!” Castor barked in sudden anger. “You know we have searched! Every city, every realm, every hovel… There is no remedy!”

He roared through torrent, a fury at the storm, at the sea, at the curse that had given and taken life from his grasp. It could not end like this—he could not accept it.

Then lightning struck the prow. The snap of wood shot through the air as a sonic boom, and the thirty foot foremast buckled at the mid, crashing to the deck scattered with men below. Shouts came in frenzied turbulence—there were men trapped beneath it.

Harkow threw a curse, but Castor was already racing down the deck to the carnage. Even clinging to the tendrils of humanity, his loyalty to the crew held firm. Anger came at that, and utter grief—they were meant for this, Castor and he.

 

....

Castor raced through the chaos, determination forcing his feet to an inhuman speed, his face to monstrous snarl. In his wake Castor saw the terror of men’s faces, felt the ripple of confusion and fear echoing like funeral bells across the deck. His face was now that of the cursed, alien and terrible. But his feet ran, his lungs still breathed. He had only minutes to aid those trapped under the fallen mast and rigging. Only minutes, then he would be stranded on deck like a horrible monster of the uncharted deep.

He found the wreckage just as a mighty swell broke over the siding, washing the deck in a swath of brine. He kept his feet; others did not. Men tumbled, swept into the sidings and scuppers. Just ahead he saw the splintered mast thrown to its side with two men pinned beneath it, and more caught in the rigging. Several others scrambled around them, trying to free their trapped shipmates.

With a thunderous roar, Castor bellowed for them to make clear.

His voice sent panic in a flood through the thoughts around him, but he banished them from his mind. They scattered before him amid the screams of the fallen. He assessed the damage in seconds, and ran to where the nearest man was trapped. As he approached, he did not slow. He hit the mast full force, and it shuddered beneath the blow, but moved less than a foot. The man beneath cried out in shocked horror at his rescuer; Castor cursed in his native tongue and bent momentarily—the pinned man was a face he knew.

“Garrick!” he rumbled. “Garrick, you know me. You must help me lift!”

But panic was all that crossed Garrick’s face, confronted with a being so alien. He struggled beneath the pole, scrambling to get free and away. Another wave, larger than the last, broke over the ship, covering the man in a foot of brine.

Castor cursed and stood with the fury of determination; he wrapped his arms around the mast and hoisted with all his strength.

Slowly, painfully it began to rise. He felt relief pang in Garrick’s mind, and sensed the thrashing of a body in the water at his feet. In moments Garrick had writhed free and launched up from the water. An echoing spark of relief hit him; the second man had managed to escape. There was one left, a rigger caught in the net of rope near the forecastle. Castor launched over the shattered pole through the driving rain towards him.

 

....

Harkow stood at the helm, holding fast while great swells rocked the ship and lightning shattered the air around them. He held fast even when the waves began crashing over the deck, clinging to the one thing that gave him purpose—protecting the crew.

Instinct told him to panic. Told him to survive, no matter the cost. He clung to the helm in desperate certainty that he would weather this, fight to his dying breath.

But as he looked out over the battered ship, truth overrode his fear—this was his doing. All of it. The storm had cost the _Morag Rose_ dearly, and the crewmen even more. He’d run from his fate; but he could not run from the curse, because the man he loved bore it in his soul, a taint and terrible gift no remedy could heal. He thought of Castor, damned by sins of ancestors, yet willing to love and sacrifice the truth of his nature to be at his side. He thought of the crewmen who had followed him through hell and destruction, trusting him as their leader. And last of all, the _Morag Rose_ herself _,_ that had been his home.

Reason told him it was not enough; it would never be enough. But in his heart he knew it was more. Everything he’d ever loved had come from the sea, and if the destruction of his soul would save them, he would face death with a steady hand.

He released the wheel in acceptance, letting it turn wide and take the ship where it would. There was no outrunning this storm—it rode with them, and would as long as Harkow remained aboard. He stood for one more silent moment, his feet solid on the boards of the deck. Wind whipped his coat and rain drenched his skin. He felt alive: passionately, completely alive.

With a final breath, he strode to the edge of the siding and cast himself to the roiling waves below. 

 

....

A wave larger than any before broke over the ship; Castor lost his footing and slipped beneath the water. The creature inside screamed to be let loose. Scales began covering his legs, but he halted them with final rush of will to stay. He must get to the rigger—the others were now in as bad a state as those who’d been trapped. He struggled to his feet through the flood and drew his knife. Through the rage of thunder and roar of the rain, he heard shouts echo through the crew.

“The captain went overboard!”

“The captain is gone!”

Castor swallowed a curse and swiped at the submerged ropes, cutting free the final crewman. The man scrambled to the surface choking up brine. Castor gripped him by the tunic and hauled him to his feet. “You must get Garrick,” he ordered in stern command. “You must tell him he is captain. You must weather the storm.”

The man’s eyes stared at him, wide in fearful awe. Castor set him free and the rigger scrambled across the deck. Slipping through his thoughts, Castor felt the conviction in his heart and knew the man would obey his command, out of fear if nothing else.

He turned his back to the wind-swept rain and looked out on the sea with desperation.

Then he felt them: the cursed. They were beneath the ship, all around and riding the water. The storm brought them. They searched for souls to prey upon.

But he was no longer one of them.

The realization came in a tremor of shock—they sensed him, just as he sensed them. But they did not name him one of their own. The hunger searing through him lost its sting. Despite his state, he no longer fought the brace of scales over his skin. He should not have been able to control it, deny it, and yet he did.

He was no longer one of the cursed.

Confusion warred in his mind; he knew he did not have time. He turned to take in the wreckage of the ship and the men scrambling to save it—he knew this must end. He inhaled a final time, savoring the freedom of the air, and made a running dive off the prow.

 

....

In the black depths of the storm-wracked sea, Harkow opened his eyes to darkness.

The driving rain was silenced here, and the rumble of thunder echoed as a distant drum. He strove to tread water, unsure which direction was skyward. The blackness was complete, and even with eyes open, he could see nothing.

Until a clap of lightning broke the sky and illuminated the scene in a flash of terrible detail.

All around, beneath the ship and riding the current, swam the alien forms of the cursed. Serpentine tails melded with human figures graced with milky eyes and fangs bared for attack. They roiled in a frenzy, as sharks drawn to the scent of blood.

The flash fell to darkness, and Harkow fought to keep raw fear from taking him utterly. Another roll of a wave tumbled him downward, and in a second flash of lighting, he saw the ship rocking precariously on the edge of a breaker, surrounded by the cursed. He searched for his dagger, but the current was too strong and swept him backwards tumbling uncontrollably. The lightning intensified, and he twisted to find the surface.

In the flickering light, a form swam directly toward him.

He freed his dagger at last and swallowed the knot of fear—the figure swimming to him grew clearer. Pale, wan skin spackled in scales, pearlescent eyes and fangs protruding beneath human lips. The monster drew closer, and in a final flash of lightning, he recognized the features, though they were alien from the man he had come to love—Castor. His siren had come at last.

With grim acceptance, Harkow let the blade slip from his grasp.

The sea plunged into utter darkness. The firm press of a body came against his own. A tail wound around his legs, calming their erratic movement. Arms embraced him, and the contours of a face found his own. 

A mouth pressed his. 

He felt the chill on Castor’s breath, and the searing pain of suffocation. He accepted it with serenity—he could think of no better way to die than in the arms of the sea itself.

....

Castor held Harkow cradled in his hold as the sea roiled around them, teeming with the cursed forms of his people. They allowed him to pass without contest, but also without greeting. He was now as alien to them as the cursed were to humans. He was no longer a siren—he had become something more. Feeling their voices and thoughts reverberate through him, he did not understand. But to finish this, he did not need to.

He bent his head to capture Harkow’s lips in a final kiss, a beautiful desperation. The hunger overtook him, and Castor drew forth the soul he had come to know as his own. It seeped into him as a breath of fresh air, revitalizing him. He drank it in, long and deep. He felt the body in his arms relax, and this puzzled him—Harkow did not fight. He gave himself up willingly.

At the moment he expected to lose the thread of Harkow’s life entirely, his consciousness returned in beautiful force. The remnants of the soul seeping into him cycled back, taking shards of his own in their wake; in the darkness beneath the waves, Harkow was gaining strength from Castor’s kiss. Where there had been destruction, life surged with renewed vigor.

Above the surface, the storm began to recede. The rumble of thunder rolled into the distance; the flashes of lightning died to near nothing. Castor clung now to the human body in his arms, giving his own soul readily to the gravity of Harkow’s own.

And then at last Castor understood.

Each had sacrificed, but in fealty to those they loved—Castor fulfilled his oath to the crew, and Harkow his oath to the sea. The curse, born of cowardice and treachery, no longer held any sway over them.

In that moment, Castor could have laughed. All those years ago, Harkow had told him it was not about fate, but their choice.

He’d underestimated him.

All around, the voices of the cursed twined with his consciousness—reveling with sorrowful celebration that one, at least, had managed to overcome the curse.

Harkow stirred in his arms. Knowing the man was still suffocating, Castor hesitated only a moment before kicking his fins and propelling them in rapid ascent to the surface.

 

....

Harkow woke to the warmth of the sun.

He lay on the deck of the _Morag Rose_ , stared up at a cloud-patched sky. There was a grey tint to them, as if threatening menace. But when he tried to rise, a spasm of pain hit his skull and he remembered: the storm had already come.

At his feet, Castor stood in human form. Gone were the scales, the fangs, the coldness of death. Harkow tried to make sense of it—he was supposed to be dead, and Castor a monster once more. A fire lay in his partner’s eye that spoke of a tale to tell when this was said and done. Harkow glanced around and found every man of the crew standing around them. To a one, they looked frightened, awe-struck and battered by the destruction. Garrick nursed an arm in a sling, and beyond him others were bandaged and bruised. The look on their faces told Harkow that had seen something; they knew what Castor had become.

He scrambled to his feet and rose. Several men drew back, and Harkow clutched his sword in response. His mind raced, searching for words to explain; but there were none. In the face of an uncertain crew, Harkow knew the time for secrecy was over.

“This man is a guardian of the sea,” he called to all who would hear. “He has saved my life. If any wish him harm…” He clutched his sword hilt tighter. “…They will have to pass through me.”

The men murmured, casting glances at one another in uncertainty.

Simms alone did not flinch. He took only a moment, then stepped forward. “We owe Castor our lives,” he said loudly. “I say if the captain trusts him, so do I.”

The murmuring fell to silence. Some seemed afraid, others worried and unsure.

At last, the mountainous form of Garrick stepped up to join Simms before them. “Ten years he’s sailed with us—he’s a loyal shipmate, and that’s all I need.”

With the grace of a cat, Dorian stepped up to join the rest. “He’s proved his mettle a hundred times over,” he said definitively. “A bit of strangeness doesn’t change that, nor my opinion of him. I’ll follow him, same as I follow the captain.”

Harkow could hardly believe his ears, or his eyes as more and more of the crew stepped forward to join Simms and Garrick in their assessment. Castor’s eyes widened at each agreement: corsairs, his brothers, naming them as one of their own. When all the men had done, Harkow laughed in rich, hearty, relief.

They were made for this, Castor and he. 

 

 


	11. Update

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An update for readers

Hey, everyone. This is just a note to let readers know I will be moving my original works (including more Sons of the Sea stories) from AO3 to their own site - knightsofamaranth.wordpress.com. They'll continue to be free to access, just moving them to a more appropriate host space. I wanted to give people advanced notice in case anyone wanted to download the formats here first. I'll leave them as-is for the next couple weeks and begin taking them down in March.

I’ve also considered putting them on a larger site like Tapas or Wattpad. If you’d be interested in something like that, just drop me a comment and let me know if you prefer one site over another.

Thanks again for reading. :)

gwyx


End file.
